The Road to the End
by PassionsInsanity
Summary: No. 6. A serial rapist terrorises Chicago's prostitution community and the team is asked for help. Meanwhile, Morgan and Abby's 'relationship' is under pressure when visiting Morgan's hometown and they both have to figure out what they really want. OC/AU
1. In the shadow of such wisdom

"_That which the dream shows is the shadow of such wisdom as exists in man, even if during his waking state he may know nothing about it... We do not know it because we are fooling away our time with outward and perishing things, and are asleep in regard to that which is real within ourself."  
><em>Paracelsus

* * *

><p>December.<p>

Monday.

One week later.

04.36

They normally came when she was asleep. Crawling through the shades, their high-pitched, maniacal screams, their forceful and penetrating voices, vibrant and glowing eyes, their claws dirty and blood stained. The dead. They haunted her, but usually only in her sleep. Because of December, she hadn't gotten a lot of sleep. Especially not after her fall out with Morgan. His words bugged her like sand in her clothes that, for some reason, she couldn't get rid of. Like a coffee stain in her favourite shirt that, somehow, wouldn't go away. But mostly, it was December. The month was reminiscent of choices she could have made, life altering, life changing choices that would surely, without a doubt, have made her life completely different. Probably more comfortable too, as they would have changed her as the person she was. She wouldn't be the cold, almost emotionless, hard-hearted person she was today. December was about forgiveness, regret and shame, all wrapped up together with a nice ribbon on top; as if it was a present. Perhaps it was. Because who she was, was the sole and lone reason why she excelled in her profession. Why she was good at what she did. December stood for a lot of other things as well, like loss and loneliness. Like waking up in cold sweat and sleepless nights. Darker nights and shorter days. Icy cold and harsh winds. Empty houses and shattered dreams. She hated December. Because December stood for all those things, and those things, brought along the nightmares.

She usually could handle them; the shaky hands, the blurry vision, the sheets wrapped around her, nearly suffocating her. She could handle the darkness, for she had fought against and with it for a long time. She lived and breathed in darkness. It was like a companion and her personal devil, all at once. But in December, they got worse. They built themselves up until they climaxed in February. Then the storm was over and the calm was slowly restored back in her life. Around July/August, it would built itself up again, reach a critical point in December, January was the calm before the storm and in March, in March it was all over again. There was peace in March and a disturbed April would awaken her again. During the summer, she would prepare herself for the ever reoccurring battle ahead of her.

Abby found herself sitting in front of the large back windows that gave her, now that the trees were stripped down to only their wooden shells, a slight view on Quantico Creek. Noting the time, it was dark outside and the trees slowly wept with the wind, steadily and softly. Birdie the German shepherd was lying next to her as she carefully smoked her cigarette in her shadowed house. It was quiet except for the faint buzzing of her computer that was turned on twenty-four/seven. It constantly scanned Atlanta's newspaper internet sites, kept an eye on the cases that were currently handled by the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime (NCAVC), the activities in ViCAP and, of course, her security system that was also running every single second of every single day. The slightest sound of her cigarette burning reverberated into her ears like gunshots and she pondered how she had gotten herself into this position all over again. Year after year, she promised herself that she wouldn't do it again, that she wouldn't put herself through this again. But year after year, she broke her promise. She usually never broke promises, especially not the promises she made to herself, but this was an exception. This was something different, something that, despite her best efforts, she had no control over.

The red light of her answering machine kept showing the number 'eighteen' and the glow casted a rather sinister look throughout her house. In December, she refused to listen to her answering machine. Those close to her, knew that, and never left messages during that particular month. Deception expert Cal Lightman was set keen on finding out why, but he never figured it out. He kept pushing her, he kept asking, he kept reading her like a book, but unfortunately for him, she was written in a language he didn't master, one that he didn't know. Basically, it was just like everything else. Abby was speaking a language nobody understood, not even best friend Miles and they could talk without words and still know exactly what they were saying. December stood for solitude, isolation and desolation. She was alone in December.

"Abs?"

Well, perhaps not completely alone. Almost startled, Abby looked over her shoulder and found Derek Morgan in the hallway leading to her master bedroom, office and the stairs. He was leaning against the faux crushed fabric stripe in antique gold tone wallpaper covered walls, his arms crossed before his arms.

"What are you doing here? And at this hour?"

She smiled apologizing and comforting. "I couldn't sleep."

"You okay?" She couldn't see his face in the darkness that fondled around his body, but she could hear the gentle concern in his voice. "I'm fine. Go back to bed."

Morgan sighed and instead of turning around, seeking the warmth of the king sized bed, dropped his hands and made his way to Abby, sitting down next to her as she lit another smoke.

"What's on your mind?"

She wanted to say that there were a million things on her mind, thousands and thousands of morbid images burnt into her eyes, hundreds and hundreds of heartless, echoless screams that made her want to winch, the endless stream of information that ran through her head like she was a computer, the few emotions she contained inside of her were slowly breaking out of their containments and the burning fury was reaching its boiling point. She wanted to say that, she really did. But she couldn't. Because she was Abby Franklin Scott. And at this particular moment, in this setting where she found herself sitting in front of her windows, smoking like it was her last day, at half past five, with this God that seemed to be able to read parts of the book she was, there could only be one thing on her mind.

"I can't do personal."

He was silent for a moment and chewed on his thoughts. She wanted to give him the time to ruminate and chew some more, but she needed to get it out for the walls of her limits were being pushed, the cages were rattling in anxiety and need for space. One thing off the list, was one less thing to think and worry about.

"I can't do my job if we're getting ourselves on a personal base. I need to keep it separated."

"What about Reid? About the SCU?"

"SCU was a mistake. And Reid…" She haltered and hesitated. "I don't know about Reid. This needs to remain what it is, casual sex, an affair, whatever you wish to call it. I need that and that's my choice. If you can't make that same decision." Her voice trailed off again and she let Morgan to fill in the blanks. In the wake of the silence that rose, she remembered one of the dreams she'd been having, and she realised that it was another thing off her mind; those dreams wouldn't reoccur again.

* * *

><p>December.<p>

Monday.

A few hours earlier.

_She was at home, lying on the camel microfiber futon sofa, reading a final report on violence under children from the age of seven to fourteen. In the last couple of year, their numbers had increased dramatically and the FBI finally decided to start investigating, searching for answers and solutions. She and Derek had discussed it thoroughly many times during dinner. Sophie would often ask about it, as if the information should concern a six year old angel. Perhaps it should, if only to teach her to never do anything violent. Then again, Sophie wasn't really the one she worried about; Abby hoped she would never have to pick up James at any police station. He was not even five but already had his doubtful moments. Sophie inherited her father's inner peace and outer calmness, the ability to think before she acted. Other than that, she didn't look at all like her parents; except maybe her level of intelligence. Abby couldn't help but pray that James would outgrow the aggressiveness he got from his mother, and passed on the 'killer gene'. Derek said he´d outgrow it. Abby remembered her own childhood and what she was like, and she was already looking at law school students that held promising futures to blackmail into helping her son out in the possibly near future._

_As she glanced at the clock, she sighed deeply. She was still a special agent, but lost her wild hairs and started teaching five years ago, after Sophie was born. She craved an enormous pleasure from teaching profilers in spe, but only ever some time, she missed the action. The adrenaline that rushed through her veins like a poisonous drug, the thrill of a good chase and the shaky legs from a fearful moment. Derek was still a profiler and became team leader around the same time they found out they were going to be parents. He led his own team now and just wrapped up a big case in Baltimore. He'd promised he'd pick up the kids from school. Abby swung her legs over the edge of her favourite, comfortable couch and headed towards the open kitchen. Whilst she turned on the cooker hood, her left hand went deep in the drawer under the shimmering black top of the kitchen island and sought the carbon box she somehow, never got rid of. Another glance at the clock told her she had time to brush her teeth and put on some perfume before they came home. She didn't smoke secretly, but she did smoke discreetly. She had quit during her pregnancies, but started again shortly after giving birth to two of the most wonderful monsters in the world. Derek knew, he still teased her about her weakness. But Abby didn't want to be 'the smoking mum', and so she kept it discreet._

_The pasta was ready, the tomato sauce done, as the little meatballs were. The front door opened, her kids came at her screaming and yelling about their trails and victories and that daddy picked them up from school which was 'like so super cool mom'. A quick peck on her lips before he took off their coats. The kids were out setting the table, she received the famous smirk of Derek Morgan and he greeted her like he always did when he'd been away on a case and the kids were out of sight ("Eeew! Mom! Dad! You're kissing again!"); he loosely wrapped his arms around her waist, kissed her deeply and passionately to illustrate the words 'I missed you'. Abby would kiss him back intensely as if saying 'Welcome home'._

* * *

><p>December.<p>

Thursday.

Four days later.

23.19

She wasn't sure what to feel. Numb, distant, solemn, sober, calm, sad. She didn't know. And so she sat still in her office chair behind her desk, staring at the small amount of paperwork she had wanted to finish before calling it a day. A couple of hours ago, they arrived back at the Headquarters after four long and tiresome day of running through the forest in search of their Unsub and his eight year old daughter he kidnapped. Abby was actually feeling rather tired and planned out her evening; finishing the paperwork, quickly scan through the four new cases that were brought to NCAVC's attention before heading home and taking a long bath. Instead, the phone on her desk had rung. Former deputy Peggy Sue, one of the two Unsubs that terrorized Odessa, Texas for a long period of time, was found dead in her cell. The beautiful suicide of white sheets. Abby always wondered how prison guards could be so stupid. Just as she recollected her mind, gathered the bits and pieces that were scattered all around her desk after the silent blow she unexpectedly took, her phone rang again. It was Miles and his news made her unsure of what to feel.

It had been almost two and a half hours since the call, and she remained seated in the same position, one hand up to her face, her index finger rhythmically but slowly brushing past her upper lip, the other hand loosely placed in her lap. Morgan had left over three hours ago, just as Prentiss, Reid and Garcia. Hotch's office was still on lockdown, and she doubted her supervisor would come out any time soon. Rossi's door was open and there were still lights on, but he too would soon head home. JJ was in her office on the other side of the hall, probably wrapping up some last paperwork. So except for Hotch and Rossi, and JJ across the hallway, she was alone, left to herself with her sewer clouds above her head and the growing abyss at her feet, her thoughts freely playing with her mind until they drove her crazy and the beast inside her howled in despair. Eventually, just like everything, it reached its end and Abby decided she had to make up her mind. Going over the pro's and con's, the good sides and the bad sides, the reason why and the reasons why not, she debated in silence, her fingers soundlessly drumming against her desk. As Rossi exited his office and haltered when he saw her sitting in her chair at this hour, she stood up and rubbed her nose whilst she headed towards Hotch's office. Almost inimical and begrudged, she passed Rossi's feature in his doorway and knocked on Hotch's door. Once she heard him reply, Abby opened the door and said down in the chair in front of his desk without uttering a word.

Hotch as well, remained silent and he gave her the room she needed to form and say words that she clearly had trouble speaking out loud, as if they were razorblades on her tongue, deadly rain that hung in the air, wordless, breathless and speechless.

"I would like your permission to go to Atlanta next week." Whilst she spoke, Abby raised her head to gingerly and warily, look at Hotch.

"What for?" His voice was softer than the question asked and she could see a cautious but mostly concerned shimmer in his eyes. Abby sighed, brushed her index finger past her lip again. "You know Paul Newman?"

Abby's comment caused Hotch to briefly lean back, tilting his head back slightly and he laid down his pen before folding his hands and resting them on his paper-fondled desk. "He's the one responsible for the death of three of your team members."

She only nodded and looked away, at the darkness that seemed to ooze through the windows in his office, calling out to her, asking her to come and play, welcoming her like long lost lovers in desperate need of a touch. "They set his execution date. Wednesday, next week. Consider it a personal day."

Hotch nodded and Abby rapidly rose from her chair, as if it was set on fire. She headed back towards the exit, mumbling a thank you before she closed the door behind her.

* * *

><p>December.<p>

Friday.

Next day.

03.37

"We've got him Frankie, we got him."

Milo Bronckovic stood in front of her, his face sweaty, the moisture on his forehead reflecting the sun that burnt high in the sky above them. His pupils were dilated, slightly, but dilated, she could see his pulse rapid and clear in the vein in his neck, his breath speed increased. They got him.

Miles was her best friend for several reasons. The first being the only person that understood her 'talent', her 'gift'. The darkness inside of her that she embraced and took it as a part of her, using it in her own way. She understood darkness, and monsters and all the morbid things that some people were capable of. If you could still call them human. First time she told him was after handling an important case in Chicago, Illinois, which was unusual. The Special Crimes Unit usually only worked cases in Georgia and sometimes, the surrounding states. She managed to predict their Unsub's next move, and nailed every detail. Whilst the rest of the group kept his professional distance, Miles came to her house later that night. Abby had been afraid that she might spook him, freak him out and scare him away. Because she liked him and they had quite a few good laughs. Instead, he sat her down and ordered her to talk him through it. Miles believed in logic, hence he became a technical analyst. He didn't understood Abby's logic, but he was fascinated by it, just like he quickly became fascinated by everything the team did. He developed a sense for the job and two years after being hired by Angie Wills, SCU team leader, he was asked for the program to become a profiler.

Second reason why he was her best friend, was that he understood her, like nobody else could. He understood the meaning of her expressions and phrases like 'Peechy' and 'I need a drink' or even her answer whenever she was asked how she was or how she slept, 'I'm good, you?' and 'Oh man, I slept like a baby'. He understood it. They spoke the same language, which was at first odd to Abby, because she never had a friend that could read between spoken lines like that. Sure, they all lived among profilers and they of course, could tell that whenever she said she slept fine and looked like hell, she had a bad night. But not Miles. No. Miles got her. He just did. The third and final reason why she loved him like she did, was because of his strange, horrifying sense of humour, something they had in common. Abby remembered the first time she found about it. They were working a case in uptown Atlanta where a psychotic man randomly set people on fire. She called Miles about information they needed and answered the call with the question if he felt like barbequing. Miles replied that he preferred his steaks medium, not crispy. They held a lot in common besides their humour; their appetite and need for food any minute of any given day, their believes and ideas, society's vision on truth and lies, their ability to drink until they almost passed out. They were a match made in heaven, but then without the erotic encounters.

Right now, she stood in the middle of the street, a tall, abandoned cemetery on the other side of Noah's Ark road. Her heart was beating fast, sweat dripped down her neck into the collar of the white blouse she was wearing. The sun burnt on her skin, making it dry up and tighten around her muscles. She longed for a shower where she, once the cool water ran down on her body, could smell the scent of that same sun. It was one of the things she loved the sun; the scent it left on her skin. The scene was brightly lit by the fire-y orb above them and red and blue flashlights were barely visible; the sirens turned off. He was here. She could feel it. He was the dirt that stuck under her fingernails that she desperately tried to get rid of. He was the annoying transpiration gliding down her back and side of her head. He was the mouse that chewed on her shoes and ate all her food. She had him now, he had pitfallen in the mousetrap she had set out for him. She had him now. They had him.

"What's next?" Miles' words broke her solitary moment and she glanced at him. On her right stood Ricardo 'Cuba' Pino, whom was the first to ever enter the SCU. Behind the squad car next to the one Abby stood behind, were Angie Wills and their team leader, Trevor Harrison safely directing their troops. Harrison met her eyes and he nodded. As he spoke into the small radio attached to his vest that allowed him to communicate with his team, Abby's eyes returned to watch the cemetery.

"It's your call Frankie" Harrison told her through the radio.

Abby reached deep inside herself, closed her eyelids behind the pilot sunglasses, took a deep breath, and she became their Unsub, running down their profile. What would he do? She knew what he would do, she knew.

_Think Frankie, think. There's a hostage, her life depends on me. C'mon Frankie, think! The profile, he's a classic narcissist, thinks he's better than everyone else, feels superior. He plans everything. But he wasn't expecting this, he wasn't expecting us. That's why he took Claire Houston, collateral damage. World War II maniac, obsessed with everything, idolises Hitler. _

"Frankie?" Cuba was pushing her, requesting her attention.

_Shut up. Okay, okay, an escape plan. He knows this place, he grew up here. He must have a plan. So why is he still waiting? Why is he still here? He was on his way to his next victim, he had the gas, the tanks, he has everything. Why's it so hot? _

"C'mon Frankie, give me something." Harrison again, over the radio. Wills joined in shortly after. "Frankie, we need to do something."

"Let her think guys." Miles jumped in, trying to get them off her back.

"We don't have much time." Ben 'Laker' Ooster replied through her earpiece, standing a couple of cars on her left, with Gina 'Angel' Angeholis and Holly 'Lewy' Lewis. It was one of the rare cases they actually worked on together, with the entire team. Normally, one group would take a case and a small group took a smaller case, sometimes even two.

_It's hot. That's impossible, it's-.. It's too hot for this month, impossible. I'm burning up. No. Focus, Frankie, focus! Do I have a fever? Wait, no, focus. Focus! Right here, right now. He knows this place, he grew up here, he knows this place! How long has he been here? He could already be long gone._

"How long has he been inside the building?" Abby opened her eyes and everyone reacted to the sound of her voice in their ears in their own way.

"We've been standing here for about ten minutes, uni's been here another five as well, so let's say fifteen minutes?" Laker calculated, estimated and suggested, all at the same time. That's what he did. You gave him questions, parts of something that needed to become whole, he put it together, logically and scientific and then he would question himself. Like any natural born researcher and philosopher did. 'Question yourself', he always told them.

Abby sighed. "Worst case scenario, he's long gone. Good change that we might find his escape route. But I'm guessing he's long gone."

"That means Houston is either dead or with him." Wills replied.

"Let's hope he took her with him, that'll slow him down." Harrison glanced at Abby again, and she caught his glare. Whatever she did, whenever he would look at her, she would find respect and trust in his eyes. Perhaps even pride. But that would be because he was like the father she never had, and they quickly established a father-daughter relationship.

"Fuck!" She kicked the car in front of her and spun around on her heels. If she hadn't pondered for so long, they might have him. Twenty-four people would be his final number. But no, she had to think and consider and reconsider as if she was Laker. This wasn't like her. Then again, perhaps it was. She hadn't been feeling well all day and yesterday, feel exhausted, tired and ill. Miles was sure she was walking around with a fever, but she didn't want to believe him. And of course, it was December. December always did strange things to her.

As Abby stood with her hands placed on her hips, annoyed and angry at herself, facing the forest that was once behind her, Harrison, Laker, Angel and two uniforms headed towards the cemetery. The rest of the team gathered around Cuba and Miles, leaving Abby alone in her furious rage, all noting the scorching air that hung around her. Rats were eating at her conscious, hands gripped her feet and pulled her down. There was something, right underneath her and it wanted her attention desperately. Wills immediately took lead, with Harrison inside the building, and started to come up with a plan of action.

'_Those other people' Paul Newman turned and faced his twentieth victim, well-known Jewish politician Bill Franks and watched him through the window. Franks had no clue he was being watched, as he and his wife set down for dinner. Newman talked to him, recording everything. It was his way of communicating with his victims, as he was never around near their deaths. They usually died in their cars or bathrooms, small spaces that he could easily control, contain and shut down as the poisonous gas crept into the rooms or cars. He taped everything, from the first time he saw them and marked them as his next victims, till their deaths. It's what led them to Newman in the first place, Miles managed to track the connection between his computer and the small webcams. 'Those other people don't mean anything. I want something big. Something good. Something that will make them remember me, like they all remember Hitler. Let's see if you're it, mister Franks, be my Jews and my Army. But first, let's see how long you will last.'_

Abby ran the tape through her head over and over again. What was it? What wanted her attention? What part of her brain called upon the memories and why? What was she telling herself?

_I want something big. Something that will make them remember me. _

_Stupid._

Her eyes popped open once she heard his voice. She saw him as her father, he took her under his wings, he taught her everything he knew. He guarded her, protected her, pulled her back down by her hairs whenever it was needed, slowed her down when she was going too fast. He was everything she ever really wanted. And now she heard his voice and she froze on her spot. The fear hit her so hard, tears welled up her eyes. All the hairs on her body rose, surgical knives ran up and down her back, her knees became wobbly, ardent, hurting chills conquered her body like she was only a small square of unmarked land.

"It's a trap! It's a trap! Get out, everyone, get out!"

He coughed between words. Paul Newman used Sarin and Sarin set in quickly. It only needed a minute. Or less. They tried to get in, but Newman must have kept this as his last resort, his very own Reich Chancellery. It was shut down, no way in, no way out. It took HAZMAT forever to clear the scene and by then, all they could do was carry out the bodies of their friends, Claire Houston, and as bittersweet result, Paul Newman's escape route. Seven days, fourteen hours of sleep, three more dead bodies, endless new streams of information and a three-day forest hunt later, they got him. Finally.

* * *

><p>December.<p>

Friday.

Same day.

03.45

They say dreams only last for five till twenty minutes. As Abby shot up from her bed, panting, her own distant screams still reverberating through her bedroom, sweat running down her body, it felt like she relived that day again. It had been four years since they were killed and two years since she last dreamt about them. She was on the verge of breaking into tears, frustration ran high and for a moment, she felt contained. Strapped down into this small space, confined in the shades that were wrapped around her like a blanket. She couldn't breathe. Slowly, forcefully and brutally, panic set in. She gasped for air and tried to pull herself together. She was Abby Franklin Scott, and Abby Franklin Scott did not cry. Abby Franklin Scott did not panic or freak out. She kept it cool, controlled and without too many emotions.

Abby kicked the sheets away, angrily and fierce, she was back watching the forest, blaming herself for questioning herself, waiting too long, letting him escape. Stumbling into the open kitchen, she found her smokes and her hands trembled as she lit on. But nicotine didn't help. Not this time. Pacing around aimlessly and restlessly didn't help either. She lunged forward, and before she realised it, the tall cabinet next to the hallway that lead to the study, her bedroom and the stairs, laid broken on the floor, glass scattered around the room, books and maps and reports and information crumbled down underneath the weight of the crippled wood. Hazily, she made it to her bathroom where she ran cool water over her wrists, avoided her reflection in the mirror with her cigarette pressed between her lips. She let it drop once she felt like she couldn't breathe and suffocation begun again. Abby rested her hands on the edge of the sink and leant forward. She needed to calm down. This was not happening. Not again.

The chains were broken, the cage was torn apart, the fog thickened, control was scared away; the beast was lose, running around inside her body, dancing a quickstep with the monster that was let loose from his cage. Calmly, but shaking in emotions and the lack of control, she looked up to meet herself. She stared at herself, stared deep into her own eyes and she could see it. Icy. Set on fire. Rage. Fury. Cool. The world was spinning and she was going too slow. She could see it. December.

Soon, February would come. February would be even worse.

And then she slammed her fists into the mirror, breaking down whatever she could find in her bathroom until there was nothing left within a minute. Or less. December was in her house, inside of her.

And February would be even worse.

* * *

><p><em>"It is only when we silent the blaring sounds of our daily existence that we can finally hear the whispers of truth that life reveals to us, as it stands knocking on the doorsteps of our hearts."<br>_K.T. Jong


	2. The glory of being alone

"_Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before."  
><em>Edgar Allan Poe

* * *

><p>December.<br>Thursday.  
>Six days later.<br>10.13

Abby rubbed her forehead as she tried to adjust to the sudden change of air pressure. She was never a big fan of flying; she preferred driving. She was holding the case file in her hands, the stack of information yet untouched, unlooked at and uselessly bobbing up and down as the leg her hand rested, slowly but restlessly came up and then went down again. As Abby opened her eyes, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window of the airplane. Smiling at herself, she figured she must look like a junkie. A pale stricken face, dark circles around her eyes, her eyes carefully stored away and sunken deeper into her head, her hair in a messy ponytail, mascara layer on layer on her eyelashes. She forced her leg to keep still and sighed, letting her head fall back into the headrest. She needed to look a little more presentable if she wanted to maintain her professional attitude. They were half an hour underway to their new destination and the team already gathered to go through the case. Abby's flight back from Atlanta had been delayed and she caught up with the rest of the BAU on the plane. Before and during takeoff, they talked her through it, JJ immediately handing her a case file and all the items of details Abby always asked for.

Hotch and Rossi sat down at the end of the plane, on the bench-like couch at the back, their old but handsome faces hidden behind brown case files, their eyes flashing from left to right, absorbing the letters. Morgan and JJ had taken the booth opposite of Abby's and we caught in a deep, meaningful conversation, the case files laying forgotten in-between. She couldn't hear what it was about it, nor did she want to. She was feeling lightheaded. And it was warm in here. Reid and Prentiss were tucked away in the booth behind Abby, wrapped up in a discussion about sexual sadism and a lack of objectivity. For a moment, the air became too tight, the pressure was too much, the walls were closing in on her. She felt the sweat starting to fall and Abby got up, trying hard to pretend she wasn't feeling so dizzy. She managed to make her way to the restroom and closed the door behind her. As she leant down on her hands on the edge of the plastic-like sink, she closed her eyes and controlled her breathing. Now was seriously not the time to start losing it. She splashed some water in her face and let the cool water run over her wrists before two soft knocks on the door startled her. Abby grabbed a towel and the water stopped running from the self-closing pillar and she kicked the door open. Half a part of her brain was expecting Morgan to stand there, leaning carelessly but awfully interested and keen against the thin wooden wall, his eyes looking up to meet hers, his deep and penetrating, her superficial and guarded. His entire body language would be able to crush her. But it wasn't him. For a tenth of a second, she was relieved and then she tensed up again, as Rossi stood just as careless in the hall, looking at and playing with the ring around his finger.

When he looked up, however, his eyes weren't nearly as unraveling and piercing as the ones she expected. "You okay?"

Abby took a short moment before she replied, looking him up and down, wondering what the heck David Rossi was doing here, interested in her, looking out for her? "Ya. I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

Abby tossed the towel aside and stepped past Rossi, crossing the small hallway to the coffee machine. As she ignored his comment, she held up an empty cup as if asking if he wanted some as well. He shook his head and continued to fiddle with his ring.

"You got something on your mind, Rossi?"

"Hotch told me you went to Atlanta yesterday."

"Ya. So?"

"Paul Newman was executed yesterday."

She spun her body around halfly, turning on her heels to look at him in surprise. "I know Rossi, I was there. And before you ask, we went out last night to celebrate the fact that the son of a bitch is dead and now, I've got a terrible hangover. So except for the fact that my head is killing me and people keep looking at me like I could go Jim Carrey any second, I'm fine." Halfway through her little speech, she had poured herself a cup of coffee and headed back to her seat, raising her voice to make sure they all heard it. Hotch stared her down, Morgan ran her over with her bulldozing eyes, Reid look downright concerned and frightened, JJ avoided her eyes and Prentiss remained seated with her back towards the fellow dark-haired woman. Angrily, Abby sat down, took a large sip of her coffee and opened the case file to get some work done.

They were on their way to Chicago, Illinois, where so far, five prostitutes had been violently raped and five of them were beaten heavily. Two hadn't survived their injuries. Lisa Gerard, twenty-one was bleeding internally when the Unsub left her for death in an abandoned, dusky alley where she bled to death. Matty Polen, twenty, frozen to death when her attacker beaten her unconscious. Three others had survived, but it was highly likely that there were more out there, as Reid stated in his rapid ability to utter words; 82% of all prostitutes were raped, 73% was raped more than five times and they are raped eight to ten times a year. 85% is raped by their pimps. About 5% of those who are raped and are streetwalkers say that they have been raped by a cope or others that carry badges and/or police identification. 82% has been physically assaulted and 78% has been threatened with a weapon. 84% is current or past homelessness. 92% says that they would leave the industry if they could. 3 out 0f 4 prostitutes have considered suicide; they cover about 15% of all completed suicides, reported by hospitals. The average age of a prostitute is 14. And Abby complained about her line of work every now and again.

So far, all hookers worked around Exchange Avenue in the sixth police district, which was a pretty popular place for the so called streetwalkers; prostitutes that pick up their clients on the curbs and street corners. Their bodies were found in abandoned alleys, less than a mile from the Avenue. Lisa Gerard lost both her parents when she was eleven and grew up in an abusive foster home. Sexual abuse was suspected but no real evidence was ever found. When she was sixteen, she dropped out of high school, ran away and ended up on the streets. Matty Polen was the daughter of a prostitute and lived her life on the streets. Polen was a drug addict, Gerard was clean. There was no connection between the girls, other that they worked the same streets. Lizzie Makowsky, victim number one, and Jody Pierce, third after Gerard, did hold a connection. They had been 'street buddies' and often out of the same group of girls. They would stick together to stay save until a client showed up. Isabelle Welsh was, so far, the last victim. Chicago PD concluded from the interviews that she vaguely knew Lisa Gerard. All loose strings, and they had nothing to tie them up yet. Then again, as Rossi pointed out, there was one, remarkable resemblance. All women had dark hair, a pale skin and brown eyes.

Abby wasn't sure yet whether to feel excited or scared to visit Chicago. She knew this was Morgan's place, where he grew up, where he became a man, this was his territory, for as far as that battle would go. Here he would be confronted by his dreams and standards and norms, his believes, his youth, his present and his future. As her mind tumbled inside her skull, she pondered why that would upset her. Was there a part of her that did want Derek Morgan then? It was the only logical conclusion to draw from her findings. What else could be the reason why she would upset to find out that this man was about to be confronted by his hometown about what they had been doing, what they had risked and where the hell this could, was and/or would take them. But, on the other hand, the words she had spoken last week were those of honesty, she knew that. It took her long and long, endless, hard debates inside her already disrupted mind before she came to that conclusion. She couldn't do personal. Not with him. Not yet, at least. Perhaps, as in her dream, perhaps she was able to, later, many years later. When she would find that purpose in her life, that thing that gave her meaning. Despite the fact that chasing bad guys and putting them behind bars felt like who she was, she knew there was something that was supposed to keep the clock ticking. She didn't see herself cutting corners whilst running after another scumbag, meeting the stench of death in the slumber of the morning and being swallowed by the darkness and late hours of the night in another twenty years. There had to be something else, right? Or was this simply it? What this simply her and once she was expandable, it would all just end?

Her thoughts were trailing off again and Abby sighed, pressing her fingers against the bridge of her nose and she closed her eyes. She heard some soft noises and someone sat down across from her, on her right. She was hoping Hotch, for she wasn't able to bear Reid's ever so concerned eyes. Instead, when she opened her eyelids, she found Derek Morgan sitting on the other side of the table, his hands folded on top of the wooden layer. He wasn't looking at her, and she wasn't sure if he was avoiding eye contact. Ever since _that_ night, they stayed apart. No more midnight encounters, no more sex-riddled nights of pure insanity and passion, lust building itself up like toxin in their bodies until they would explode. And then it would start all over again. Truth be told, she didn't even actually miss it that much. For the past week, she had been feeling lethargic and all energy seemed to be sucked away the moment she found some. She stared at him, dared him to look at her. She pressed her lips tightly together, refusing to say a word before he would. When he did finally look up, there was something in his eyes. Something worrying, disquieting and bothersome. She had never seen that look before. And she knew it was directed at her. Abby licked her lips and broke her gaze away, looking out the airplane window. Rage overpowered her in a sudden onset and she wished she could tear the plane apart. Had she died and was he, this simple man, suddenly able to make her feel like he did? Had she suddenly lost her supernatural shield and was he suddenly able to break right through? When had this happened? The answer hit her clear and hard and she remembered; it was December. February was close. In defeat, Abby let her head rest on the table that separated them and closed her eyes, her hands functioning as a boney pillow.

"Abby-"

It would have been perfect, if he had not spoken. She would have surrendered and let it be, because February was so close. But he had to speak. He had to. So she raised her hand sharply and abruptly to silence him. "I have a hangover. I'm British so my hangovers really, really suck."

"Why don't you take a couple of days off?"

"I just need some sleep." Abby lowered her hand again and her lightheadedness took over, making her drowsy and she felt herself drifting off. She remembered thinking, praying to God, '_no nightmares please, not now_' before the soft, crackling sound returned. Morgan scooted over another seat, sitting directly opposite of her now and he carefully, gently placed his hands on her elbows. It was a small gesture, but humble and it torn whatever defenses she had against Derek Morgan, right apart.

God. She hated December.

* * *

><p>December.<br>Thursday.  
>11.56<p>

"How's the hangover?" Reid looked rather amused when he appeared next to Abby, whom stretched her back after the two hour flight to Chicago. She looked at him and put on her favourite smile.

"Feeling much better, thank you."

"You okay?"

"No."

Reid's head snapped to meet hers and his eyes widened. His brows knitted together in confusion and she could see he was trying to read her face. Abby briefly pointed in front of her. "I hate the friggin' snow."

A smile formed around his small lips and he snorted. Abby replied the snort with a chuckle of her own and placed a hand on his shoulder to guide him with her to the cars. They followed the rest of the team towards the black SUV's that were parked near the exit of Midway International Airport. During the ride to the police station, Abby finally felt like she was getting back on her feet. Her heartbeat remained steady and controlled, the shaky hands stopped shaking, the world stopped spinning and she was gaining control again. Her mind seemed to finally be able to focus and she didn't feel like running around without her hand anymore. Information was finally processed properly, stored and connected as her imaginary pen started scribbling down into her imaginary notebook.

As Hotch drove towards the parking lot of the police department on 2255 East 103rd Street, he passed the rather unimpressive PD. It was a low building, only one floor and dark stone bricks made it a miniscule edifice on the edge of a large residential area. It was located on a side-way street at the end of the block. A long stretched, large, forest-like green area separated the department from the Blue Island Metra train station, which was located directly across from it. A bus stop on the corner which looked rather misplaced, then again, they were in the middle of a typical American neighbourhood. Prentiss and Rossi were directed towards the first crime scene, where Lisa Gerard died, and Morgan took Reid to see the scene were Matty Polen died. Which left Hotch, JJ and Abby to set up shop at the PD, make friends, be nice and get started on paperwork. She hadn't even responded to Hotch the moment he told her to go with him to the police station, perhaps not even at all that surprised that on this case, she would be under a close eye of her supervisor. Part of her was glad that she didn't have to spend time with her probably ex-lover, another part was annoyed that she would be watched for the next couple of days. Her attitude and her way of acting for the past couple of days did, however, call that upon itself.

Inside the station, it was rather quiet and a bit solemn. Only a handful of police officers were scattered around the long stretched, surface-eating department. For a second, she missed the usual murmur, but that quickly faded when a tall woman approached them. She had a half long hair and a rough and hardened face. Rust-grey hairs sparked the once bright red and deep lines in her face told Abby that the detective has had her share in police years. High cheekbones, wide mouth glossed deep red by lip-gloss, dominant proportioned cleft chin, with a small dimple in the center, heel blue-shadowed blue tired and feeble eyes. A small, straight, uptilted nose was dashed by a fair amount of freckles. Despite her eyes, the woman held an unusual strong appearance, square shoulders, back straight, firm walk, hands on her sides – confident. She might have seen too much, she still stood strong, like a rock. She wore little to no makeup, except for the eye-shadow and mascara. The lip-gloss looked rather alien on her and Abby guessed she tried to make a good, well cared impression. She shouldn't have gone through to trouble to put something as odd tasting, sticky stuff on her lips when she was wearing a deep bright, charcoal blue well cut trouser suit. Belted pants with a tweed jacket featuring a skinny belt and three-button styling. She wore high-heeled shoes, black, simple but elegant. However, not really cut out for action.

Suddenly, Abby felt simple in her two-piece pant suit with a chic stitched stripe design and the black, worn Nikes on her feet. The approaching woman held out her hand and shook Hotch's, before extending her long fingers towards JJ and Abby whilst introducing herself. "SSA Hotchner. Marcelle Quinn. I'm the lead detective on the case. My partner, Jeremy Towers is out to get some lunch, but he will be back shortly."

"That's okay." Hotch turned on her feet and appointed the two woman. "SSA Jennifer Jareau and Abby Scott."

Quinn took a good, studious look at Abby. "You were on the new last night, in regards with Paul Newman."

"Ya. That's me."

The detective gave her a meaningful nod and headed into the direction of an empty office space. "I took the liberty of getting a head start." As they entered, each case had already been presented on bulletin boards; pictures, crime scene photos, snapshot of the victims, a large map with thumbtacks placed where each crimes presumably took place. Witness statements were neatly organized and placed on the round table in the middle of the room, just as the two autopsy reports and all the interviews conducted. Quinn smiled meekly. "I've been here before. Worked with your secondary team two years ago."

"I wish we wouldn't have to be here under these circumstances again. Thank you, for the work." JJ said kindly.

"So, where do we start?"

At the beginning. Of course.

* * *

><p>December.<br>Thursday.  
>13.00<p>

Abby stood outside in the deserted neighbourhood, glancing from her left to her right to spot any activity, white breath clouds following her, with her back against the dark brown bricks that represented the police station. Smoke parted from her lips and she licked them, before taking another long, deep pull. One thing was for sure, Chicago PD didn't know how to make a good pot of coffee. No wonder they never let Morgan make them their coffee. JJ quickly started working to make a new, fresh, good-tasting pot, but Abby was in dire need of some caffeine or she would faint. The lack of sleep and all the events that had been happening in her life, leaving turmoil of disaster and destruction behind, started to take their toll. Back in Atlanta, she somehow always managed, mostly because she knew she was save and sound in Atlanta. Nothing could touch her there. In Atlanta, somebody like Derek Morgan would have never been able to have gotten so close, so deep underneath her skin. In Atlanta, a man like Hotch wouldn't be able to take the mickey out of her like that. No. In Atlanta it would all be all right. Because it was Atlanta. Atlanta loved her and she loved Atlanta, clear as crystal water and set in stone. But she wasn't in Atlanta anymore and she had to learn how to survive without her beloved city, without it's people functioning as her mile high walls, the heart of it her castle, people's voices the watchtowers, her eyes, and their presence like pillows that broke her fall every single time. She missed her friends, her colleagues at the SCU, Gary the Doorman whom effortlessly protected her apartment, Bill the Headman, the receptionist working every single day at the entrance of the Special Crimes Unit's building. She missed Mister P., the crazy small time dealer that always sought her out on her way home, talking on the subway. She missed Padre and the Wild Bunch, a large group of elder homeless men that owned their own corner and often helped out Abby in her investigations. She even missed Lucinda and Effy, the two hookers that kept on asking if Abby was sure they couldn't help her with _anything else_.

The entrance door next to her opened and Abby's head snapped in the direction to see who it was. JJ smiled friendly and handed her a cup of black liquid, steam rising above it. "Made you some fresh coffee."

"Oh, thank God." Abby placed the cigarette between her lips, tossed whatever was left of her coffee in the direction of the snow covered grass and gladly accepted the hot mug.

"Hey, are you okay?" JJ hugged her thick coat and shortened the distance between them. She looked cornered and worry lines appeared on her forehead as her eyebrows tensed together.

Abby looked at JJ for a brief moment and then stared ahead. "Yeah. I'm fine."

"What was it like?"

_The air was cool and frigid against her skin. Her eyes were dry and her jaw stiffened. Her shoes left heartless echoes through the dark and metallic hallway. The badge on her chest bounced up and down with every step. Normally, when they gathered, it was all a happy event. But now, even Cuba was silent. __They walked ahead of her and she prolonged her own execution by trailing, increasing the distance between her and them. Lewy noticed her missing presence and turned to see where she was. They locked their eyes with each other and her face must have said enough, as the pretty, skinny woman turned around again and left her and her trails. _

_She preferred to stand and choose a spot in the corner, cuddled away in the darkness. A lot of people had gathered and she recognised some of the faces. Each member of her old team had found their own spot, Milo and Lewy being the only ones that stuck together. This was something they dealt with on their own. This was a moment they did not need someone that could see right through them. Right now, they needed the protection of the gloomy, abstruse, shadows, the caressing of the arctic air that gently ran up and down their spines, the anonymity of their masks. _

_He was laying on the table, his arms spread wide as if he was going to fly. Perhaps he was. The years had gone by for him too fast and he looked like he had aged over ten years, whilst in fact, it only had been four year. His hair had gotten long, blue circles around his eyes, his face bone-y and sunken into his skull. His eyes, however, his eyes held the same maniacal shimmering. His smile was still crooked in the middle, adding to his daft appearance. Suddenly, those maniac eyes found her and intertwined. He started laughing and he reminded her of Anthony Hopkins in 'the Silence of the Lambs'. He sent chills up and down her spine._

"_Abby Scoooott! Aaaabby Scooooott! You have come, my love, my dove, welcome to my paradise! Behold, within minutes I shall witness the gates of hell and meet the Devil. The first thing I will do once I have resided, is sitting down with Death. I know, he has big plans for you! Just wait and see. I'm sooohooo glaaaaad you're here, my love, my dove, I'm really happy Frankie, so haaaaappy! Because I know! I know you're secret. ZFP, darling, darling, daaaaarling! I know everything, he has spoken to me. Father spoke to me, darling, and he has a message for you. Open your eyes, open your eyes, OPEN YOUR EYES! They are lying and deceiving and nasty traitors. Find the truth! Black becomes white, white becomes black, darling, remember the code, he's there, Father is always watching you darling. And, before I die and meet my creator, I wish to thank you. I, Paul Hendrik Newman, thank you, Abby Franklin Scott. You made me famous! Because of you, when I meet Hitler down in the pit, I will be able to look him in the eye and shake his hand and feel equal to him. I wouldn't be able to do that without you, and, of course, without Trevor Harrison! How could I forget him! Trevoooooor! Is the wifey around here? Tell me now, princess, where aaaaare you?"_

_He continued laughing and the wards did their best to keep him quiet. But there wasn't much they could do. And nobody of the audience lifted a finger to silence him either. He was dying and truth be told, Abby had been dying to hear his deathbed confession. _

"_Abby." His voice got hoarse and he had trouble breathing as they started the procedure and the liquid entered his body. "I know, darling, ZFP, I know. He's right here, right here with me. You have to find out the truth..."_

"Ever been to an execution?"

JJ shook her head.

"Well, it comes down to the fact that you enter a cubicle, the inmate is on the other side of the glass in his own cubicle. He's allowed to speak his last words and then he dies."

Abby wished it was all that simple.

* * *

><p>"<em>Language... has created the word "loneliness" to express the pain of being alone. And it has created the word "solitude" to express the glory of being alone."<br>_Paul Johannes Tillich


	3. Left out the lie

"_A lie will easily get you out of a scrape, and yet, strangely and beautifully, rapture possesses you when you have taken the scrape and left out the lie."  
><em>Charles Edward Montague

* * *

><p>December.<br>Thursday.  
>Same day.<br>13.11

"Okay, what do we have so far?" Abby entered the office they used and halted before the bulletin boards. Hotch was seated behind the table, reports and files scattered around the smooth, wooden surface. They were working the case now and Abby needed to push everything else aside, to catch whomever did this. That was simply how it worked. And so she pulled her head together and called out to the night train on the platform, whistling as if it was a dog.

Hotch looked up shortly and it was then that she noticed JJ wasn't around. "Five raped prostitutes in five weeks. First two were seven days apart. Between Lisa Gerard and Jody Pierce eleven days went by. Five days between the third and the fourth and the fifth, Isabelle Welsh, was nine days after victim number four, Matty Polen. We can't have Garcia search the databases, because, as Reid said, rape is unfortunately very common in this kind of work. Plus, a lot of potential victims won't come forward. We'll have to establish his MO, figure out his signature before we can start focusing on other victims that could very well be out there."

"Perhaps they would come forward."

"What are you thinking?" Hotch dropped the file he was holding on the table as his eyes locked on Abby's feature.

She nudged her head to the right once and her eyes flashed over the photos. "Spread the word that we're looking for the jag off that did this. Get out on the streets. Get people to know that we're looking into it. A lot of prostitutes believe that either no one will believe them because of their job or that no one will care, because of their job, _or_ that no one will do anything about it. Because of their job."

"Good idea."

"I'm full of good ideas." Abby retorted as she sat down.

"Even with a hangover?" He casually glanced at her, but there was more to his words.

"Bad timing, I know. Won't happen again."

"Take a look at this." She was expecting a speech, or at least some words of furious wisdom, only Hotch merely handed her the autopsy files. She decided to let it be and reckoned it was his strong and definitely clear way of telling her something. "Lisa Gerard died of a ruptured aorta. Matty Polen was beaten severely and a blow to the head knocked her unconscious. By the time she woke up, she must have been feeling too weak and hurt too much to stand up and she froze to death. Both are indirect kills."

"So you could say that they were unintentional. He didn't mean to actually kill them."

"He leaves them so suffer." Hotch mumbled as his left hand found a picture of Lisa Gerard, dead on the autopsy table.

"Because if he would kill them, they wouldn't be able to remember what he did to them."

Both women had been beaten, mostly in the face, but the coroner found bruises on their breasts, inner thighs and ligature marks around their necks. There was vaginal and anal penetration and the autopsy confirmed by the tears in the flesh, that it hadn't been consensual.

"But, other than the bruises, there is nothing significant about what he did to them. I mean, the bruises will heal and fade, he left nothing that would leave a scar or anything that would remind the victims and others what happened to them."

"Sadistic sex offenders like to script their doings, as they dreamt about in their fantasies where it all begins. He could have been forcing her to say things, that combined with the control he had over the victims, was enough for him."

"Are we sure he's sadistic?" Abby looked up from the papers she was holding in her hands and suddenly noticed that despite his age, whenever Aaron Hotchner was working, he held an supernatural sense of handsomeness over his gentle face. His eyes seemed at ease and much calmer than when he wasn't working a case. He needed this, she suddenly understood. He needed this to give him a purpose in his life, just like she did. The mutual drive between them left Abby feeling strangely connected to him, more than she did before. "So far, the level of violence doesn't scream sadistic to me yet."

"He's still evolving. It'll get worse."

"Like Jerry Brudos who started fantasizing about dressing up in women's clothes and ended up with a foot in his freezer."

"That's one way of putting it."

Abby snorted at his comment and sighed deeply. She craved another cup of coffee. "Like Holmes and Holmes said; 'They progressed into degeneracy.' Do you know what I find most horrifying? Those people, they have a clear understanding of what they are doing, the pain and humiliation they are inflicting upon their victims. And they rely on ' empathy'. The ability to understand and feel what their victims are feeling because that's what turns them on. This is one sick son of a bitch."

Hotch didn't reply, but by the way he pulled another case file into his direction, dug himself back into the paperwork, the case, the clockwork ticking, was reason enough for Abby to believe he couldn't agree more.

* * *

><p>December.<br>Thursday.  
>Same day.<br>16.55

Morgan and Reid had returned shortly before Prentiss and Rossi took shelter in the warm police department as a small snow storm raged on outside. Quinn's partner, the much younger but intelligent Jeremy Towers arrived as well, with the honey-mustard sauce still on his blue and grey striped on his tie. But he was eager, to learn, to discover, to see and become a great detective. Three months on the job and that eagerness still hadn't faded even the slightest bit. Abby admired him and eyed him studious and curious. She happily accepted a large white cup with the Chicago PD logo staring at her. She leant forward and whisperingly asked JJ if she made the coffee herself. JJ smiled and held back a chuckle and nodded her head. After they all had been supplied with coffee mugs, they gathered in the small area assigned for the case, the last introductions took place before they started running down their findings; Morgan and Reid to start off first.

"Detective Quinn, these are SSA Rossi, Prentiss, Morgan and Doctor Reid. Marcelle Quinn and her partner, Jeremy Towers."

As they shook hands, Morgan eyed the younger partner with the same interest as Abby had before. "Towers. You wouldn't be Billy Towers' son, right?"

"Yes sir." Towers junior nodded proudly. "Did you know him?"

"I worked with him a couple of times, during my street cop days. How is he?"

An uncomfortable silence fell between them as Jeremy looked down, seemed to gather his courage and then looked up again. "He died, sir, couple of months ago. Lung cancer."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's okay. Quinn here says that I look just like him, so I'll be just a great cop as he was."

"Careful youngster, don't overstep."

"Yes ma'am, sorry ma'am." Quinn, JJ and Jeremy laughed, Reid and Prentiss managed to smile, but the miens of the rest of the group remained stern and almost grim-like. Morgan seemed a little uneasy to kick off, but Hotch made it easy for him. "What did you find?"

"The first crime scene was in a pretty lonesome area. It was a back alley behind an abandoned building, so he was least likely to be disturbed. He knew where to take them."

"That means he planned the event beforehand, and probably canvased the area to find out where he could take his victims." Reid added, falling in line right after Morgan.

"There is little to no activity at night, minimizing the chances of being interrupted. They were alone and he could take all the time he wanted with them." Morgan said.

"And no one would hear them scream." Rossi muttered, but his voice was clear and audible in the room. "The second scene was also an alley and again, in an area you wouldn't pass through late at night, especially not on your own. Matty Polen was probably found in the same position like he left her. Once he was finished, he turned around and turned his back on her. He didn't even look over his shoulder once."

"He's using them and leaves them like the waste he thinks they are, like the trash in the alleys. Matty Polen was found with her legs still spread, it all portraits what he thinks of them." Prentiss took over and sipped on her coffee whilst she spoke. "He managed to separate them from the group so he's charismatic and looks trust worthy."

"He could be using some sort of con or act, Lisa Gerard was found curled up in the same alley she was assaulted and it was about five minutes away from where her friends saw her last. He could also be driving a car and lure them into it by pretending to be a client." Abby silently watched Reid as he spoke and absorbed the words he uttered as if she was a napkin placed on a large pool of water.

"He used physical violence to control his victims, which means he's strong. Strong enough to knock out a couple of teeth." Morgan commented.

"Generally, serial rapists don't use this level of violence. 75 to 84% of all convicted and interviewed sexual offenders say that they didn't use force or rather really not use any kind of physical abuse." Reid stated and Abby immediately thought back of the conversation she had with Hotch earlier, about sadism. If rapists didn't like physical force, the chances of their Unsub really being sadistic, were getting bigger and bigger.

"There was no trace of semen, does that mean he's impotent?" Quinn asked and Rossi was quick with the answer. "Could be. But I'd say he's sadistic and hurting women like this turns him on. He most likely used a condom."

"Again, that's odd. Most rapists aren't concerned about leaving their DNA behind." Reid blurted out again.

"It makes sense." Abby said louder than intended and shyly glanced around the room once all eyes were set on her. She had been in this situation often enough to not feel stupid anymore. "He believes these women are trash, dirt, a low-life. That's how he interacts with them, how he treats them. If I was a guy, I wouldn't want to stick my dick into someone I found utterly disgusting without some sort of protection."

Ten minutes later, Quinn took Towers, JJ and Prentiss to a woman that reported her rape earlier today and her attacker could be the Unsub they were looking for, which left the rest of the team in the improvised conference room with witness statements before them.

"All victims say that the Unsub forced them to say things. 'Tell me you're dirt, tell me you're worthless, say that you deserve this, bitch.'" The young genius quoted just a few.

"So he has a script for his victims to repeat." Rossi commented. Abby could see by the look in his eyes and on his face, something was bothering him. Morgan, too, noticed it.

"Something bugging you Rossi?"

The man in question winched and bit his lower lip. "All the victims look alike. Brunettes, young, pale skin, brown eyes. That's pretty preferential if you ask me."

"And the script, it feels like it's directed at one person in general, not so much as towards the actual victim." Reid added.

"Could be that his fantasy is still evolving, like he is." Abby suggested as she flipped through interview number 5. "He went from 'say you deserve this' to 'say you deserve this, bitch'."

"So we're dealing with one pissed off little dude." Morgan sighed and used his arm to lean against the window, his back turned towards the room.

"It's all about control." Reid suddenly spoke and kept his gaze firm on the paper in front of him. "He doesn't stop until they call him master."

"Domination, control, humiliation and degeneration. Well, he's definitely sadistic." Hotch stated flatly.

"Don't forget power. He's set keen on showing his victims that he's better than them, stronger, more powerful." _Choo-choo! _Abby stored her words in her head and left it there to ponder over later. For now, Morgan needed her attention as he turned, sighed and spoke again. "That means he could be in the system. Aggravated assault, something like that."

"Call Garcia and also ask about registered sex offenders" Hotch barely even looked at him and his eyes remained fixed on the bulletin boards. "After that, I want you to take Reid and Scott to Matty Polen's apartment. We need to figure out how he meets his victims, where he found them. Rossi, JJ and I will take Lisa Gerard's flat. Tomorrow we have the victims coming in. We should focus on that in the morning" The tall, _still _handsome agent exited the room with his phone in his hand.

* * *

><p>December.<br>Thursday.  
>Same day.<br>18.15

Matty Polen rented a small apartment on 2750 East 75th Street for a couple of hundred dollars. It was small; the kitchen held multiple functions to serve as place to sit and watch crappy TV, place to eat and to cook. A small bathroom was attached to the bedroom and that was about it. There wasn't much furniture either; a torn, stained green French couch, a cheap plastic dresser that contained a few magazines, unpaid bills, an extra set of sheets and a cd collection, the cd player placed on top, a round table with two partly broken chairs, an old and broken bed with filthy sheets and a closet where she kept whatever clothes she had. Whilst Morgan went through her cd collection, Reid was inspecting the bedroom and Abby was disgusted by the dirty dishes in the sink and the remains of food scattered across the cooker and the two cabinets.

"Concierge said she wasn't home much, and if she was, neighbours complained of constant noise coming from her room. Sometimes clients, music, shouting." Reid summed up the list as he re-entered the living room/kitchen/dining room.

Morgan held up a few cd's. "Heavy metal. That should keep you up at night."

"That's why they invented earplugs." Abby retorted as she carefully opened on of the cabinets to look at the contents.

"Trust me, heavy metal was the least of my problems."

Abby and Reid glanced at each other, smiled and replied at the same time. "Girls."

"What?" Morgan cried out indignantly as he partly spun around, causing Reid and Abby to chuckle.

"Oh, definitely." Abby stated and gathered her courage to push a couple of pots and pans aside to see what else was inside the grease stained plastic cupboard. "Ten bucks he's done a threesome."

"Multiple threesome's." Reid corrected her and they both looked over their shoulders to see who was right.

Morgan sighed, rolled his eyes before looking to the sky (Or rather, the rust circled ceiling.) "Only once."

"Ha!" Abby exclaimed in triumph. "There goes your lunch money, mister."

"So, I know what keeps Reid up at night-"

Reid's eyes widened and he spun around to meet his colleague. "You do?"

"Star Wars and books. What kept you up at night?" The dark-skinned agent opened the top drawer and went through Polen's bills, a presentation of the disaster she had made of her life.

"I've been suffering from free-running sleep since I was fourteen. Basically everything kept me up at night." She replied casually and noticed a filled washcloth stuffed away in the corner behind a large, rusty cooking pot.

"Ten bucks says parties." Reid said immediately and he skimmed through some of the magazines that laid carelessly on the couch, next to two-week-old newspaper.

"At the age of fourteen?" She asked Reid surprised and misunderstanding.

"You started young, fifteen, sixteen." Morgan replied matter of factly.

"Are you profiling me?"

"No, but he does keep looking at your ass." The young genius commented dryly, pretending not all to know what that meant.

"You just can't handle it that I won the bet and you lost 20 bucks in two minutes." Morgan retorted and Abby got up from her squatted position, holding the washcloth in blue gloved hands.

"Actually, they were called raves." She corrected them both.

"Raves." Her favourite colleague replied amazed.

"Ya."

"Aren't those usually drug-centric."

"Ya." She said as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

"That's why you dropped out of high school." Morgan suddenly said, remembering their conversation in Boston.

"Ya." Abby emptied the cloth on the cabinet and wanted to excitedly tell her findings, when she noticed the silence in the room and their eyes burning in her back. She turned around and found both men staring at her. "Oh, come on. You have an expunged juvenile record and you're a former addict."

"You're a former addict as well." Reid replied defensively.

"I wasn't addicted. And it's been over a decade, that's not fair."

"Wait a minute, how did you know that?" Abby switched her gaze from Reid to Morgan and read the deep worry lines in his face, the narrowed eyes, the brows pressed together, his defensive stand. She tried to make her voice sound as casually and normal as she could, but knew in the back of her head that she failed miserably. "I read every report on every case the BAU handled for the past five years."

He titled his head back and she could see emotions running past his eyes, but wasn't sure which ones it were. "Excuse me." As he headed towards the exit, his phone rang and gave him an excuse to exit the room.

"Morgan? Morgan?" Abby called out to him, but he disappeared behind Polen's apartment door. "Damn it." She turned back to the cabinet and rested on her hands placed on the surface, sighing heavily.

Reid walked up to her and spotted the fair amount of drugs lying in front of her. "That's no surprise?"

"What is?" She snapped. Reid pointed at the drugs with a blank expression. "Oh. That. Yeah. Sorry."

"You two are sleeping together, aren't you?"

His question dazzled her and the grip around her chest got tighter, sweat started to form on the back of her neck and on her back, the edge of her sight started to blur. "He wished." To her own amazement, her voice was still strong, firm and steady.

"Frankie, you promised you wouldn't lie to me. You don't have to answer me, just don't lie."

"That's not fair, if I won't answer, you'll know you're right and I'll never be able to have my own little, dirty secrets because I'm not 'allowed' to lie to you."

"So you two are sleeping together."

"It's stupid, I know."

"You should probably go talk to him."

Abby glanced over her shoulder at the door her dirty mistress just disappeared behind. "Nah. I think I'll let him cool off for now."

Reid and Abby continued to go through Polen's stuff, but in fear of finding things nastier than a rotting corpse and dirty needles, and the knowledge that Matty Polen didn't spend much time at her apartment, they really, excruciatingly carefully turned the flat upside down completely. Two hours after they first opened the door, they had found nothing much. Polen did have a record for possession, amongst other things, hence they weren't surprised to find a good amount of drugs at her home. The magazines told them that she dreamt of the better, picture perfect American dream with a nice house, nice husband and nice kids included, but the shallowness of the empty covers didn't seem to reach her. Nor did the actual life. Morgan returned half an hour after his dramatic exit with the notification Hotch wanted them back at the station once they were done. Prentiss and Hotch had searched Gerard's apartment, but, like them, found nothing that could connect the victims to each other or the Unsub. The first victim arrived tomorrow; the latest target, Isabelle Welsh came in early and Hotch wanted to go through their approach and tactics before they would get some sleep and rest.

* * *

><p>December.<br>Thursday.  
>Same day.<br>23.02

Abby paced around her hotel room, going from one wall to the other, the window on her left and then on her right. She was sure that if she kept doing this, she would burn holes in the oddly chosen red carpet underneath her feet. One arm was wrapped around her waist, the other leaning on it, her index finger brushing against her lips. At times, she was nodding at herself, as if having a deep and meaningful conversation with her alter ego. Other times, the fingers of her left arm, the arm swung around her torso, sporadically starting moving, fiddling with each other and brushing up against one another. Her mind was racing, and this time, not about the case. For the past two hours she had been ruminating, pondering and thinking about the case, scribbling down her thoughts and dissecting theories until they were lose threads again, before tying them up once more.

Abby made up her mind and left her hotel room, walking down the hall to reach room four-oh-seven. She knocked nervously and looked around the corridor suspiciously. Morgan opened the door and invited her in without saying a word.

"I'm, I'm sorry, about earlier. And I've been thinking really hard about what to do, I mean, how to do it. I could use the Hotch approach and just stare you down, or do like Rossi and give you the 'been there, done that' speech. Or, perhaps a more feminine touch, but then again, JJ has this motherly kindness that I just don't know how to use and Prentiss, well, Prentiss would find a smooth way between honesty, boldness and this soothing, comforting air around her. Reid, I don't know what Reid would do. He would probably start spurting out random facts and feel awkward and stupid."

"How about the Abby-way?"

She chuckled briefly. "I uhm, I would probably just-… I don't know, really."

"Well, what if I was one of your former team members?" Morgan sat down and remained strangely calm under Abby's weird nervousness and talkative error in her foggy brain. She felt dislodged from her own head and things were just so different.

"You're not." Abruptly, a shower of coldness overtook her and she managed to sit down next to Morgan on the edge of Morgan's rented bed. "But I uhm, I would probably storm into your room and start blurting out idiotic things and feel like a complete retard when I flee minutes later." She sighed.

"I shouldn't have dropped the bomb like that. I should have either kept my big mouth shut or handle it a little more delicately."

"That's your apology?"

"It sucks, I know."

"Yeah. You suck at apologies."

"I didn't really came here for an apology, honestly. My dad…" She halted and hesitated for a short period of time. "My dad was an Army-guy. Practically married to it. He was a colonel. My mum ran off when I was six, she had a – well, she was a junkie. I have one older brother my father favourites. Did it until the day he died. Even when I joined the Army, joined the FBI, he still favoured him. I was nothing in his eyes."

"Your point?" He didn't sound rude, at all. Quite the opposite, he was amiable and pastoral.

"My point is…" She sighed. "We all have our childhood scars." Abby finally managed to look at him and met his profound eyes staring at her, taking in every detail, totally focussed on her.

"You want a heart to heart? Last time I checked you don't do personal." This comment was harsher and intended just like the way it came across. She wasn't sure whether to respect the fact he guarded his boundaries or just plain lashing out. In defence, perhaps, even. She raised her chin boss shortly and looked back at him. "Reid knows."

"I know." Morgan's voice was deep and somewhat hoarse.

They set the room on fire. Their eyes interlaced and sparks ignited. They just set the room on fire.

Shivers rolled down her spine when she met his eyes and she was so sure her hands started shaking, her lips started trembling and her skin was screaming out for his touch. The stiffened jaw and slight pushed forward lips said enough; he was resisting the urge as well. It hurt, deep, deep inside her bones and every part of her was desperately aching to be close to him, closer and closer and closer. They stared at each other for what seemed for eternity and time stood still. Then, suddenly, out of the blue, abruptly, they both moved at the exact same time. Abby swiftly jumped into his lap as his arms were suddenly already around her waist, his hands on her back, pulling her so tight he almost hurt her, his fingertips digging into her skin. Their lips locked and their tongues intertwined whilst their breathing increased rapidly and drastically. They forgot to think, because they were on fire.

"Abs, this is a really bad idea."

"I know. I know. Really, really bad idea."

They had moved beyond the fact of an 'idea' the second that he opened his hotel door and let her ramble. Subconsciously, this was what they were longing and looking for. This was what they needed. But they couldn't stop, despite their heads telling them, pleading them stop because this was wrong and they were working a case and this was so, totally, completely, utterly wrong. But they couldn't stop.

Because they were on fire.

And they collided once again.

* * *

><p>"<em>The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there."<br>_Lesley P. Hartley


	4. Surrender to God

"_The future is called 'perhaps', which is the only possible thing to call the future. And the only important thing is not to allow that to scare you."  
><em>Tennessee Williams 

* * *

><p>December.<br>Friday.  
>Next day.<br>02.25

It was too early for the matutinal slumber of the dark and abstruse morning, but Abby felt like it. As the phantasmagoria through her windows slowly developed and the headlights that occasionally lit the room lost their shape and became a vague blur, she smoked her cigarettes, drank the mini bottles she snatched from the mini bar and wondered what in God's name she had done. Only once had she crossed the line like this, _a_ line like this, and they ended up both paying the price for that. From sinning delinquents they morphed into sorrowful victims, the actions still clear and vivid in their minds, the voices in their heads still punishing themselves and the reaction that followed harsh and fierce like the burns of the lash on their bare backs in the Era of flagellation. But whether or not she had done this before, it had nothing to do with the present and the fact that she had again, gotten herself into a situation of sorts. She promised herself she would not let her affair with Derek Morgan penetrate its way into their work relationship; they kept it professional. What happened in their free time, when they were off duty, happened. But on duty, at work or, worse, like now, whilst working a case, was as good an idea as a black man spending his holiday in the south during the Civil War. She pondered how she would be able to fix this breach of clarity and this fissure with herself.

She hated December. These things could only happen in December.

Half an hour ago, when Morgan had fallen asleep, she snuck out of his hotel room, hastily running to her own room, constantly looking over her shoulder as if she was being chased by a ghost. She had no energy left to trash her room. Besides, people would ask and wonder and her mask, her disguise, had been compromised and Hotch would be able to crack her. He would. She felt like sleeping, drifting off into sub-consciousness and just forget all about it. She felt wrong, so utterly, completely wrong, yet it felt so good at the same time. It was like knowing your mum would kill you but you still keep playing in the mud because you love the feeling of the rain coming down on your face and the freedom of dancing and playing in the muck. She knew it was wrong, for her mother would spend hours on getting the stains out and clean the floor again, she still did it anyway. And she wasn't sure whether or not she disliked the fact that she overstepped her own lines or that despite all that and everything else, she still wanted to do it. It was abstrusely, only problem was, she didn't understand it herself. Abby turned her head away from the lack of knowledge and forced herself to focus on the current problem and made herself solve it. She slept with Derek Morgan whilst they were on a case. She lost visual on the priorities, which was finding the man that raped and killed prostitutes. Regardless of the inhuman conditions they worked in and sometimes even chose themselves, they were still human beings and that made them just like she was.

And she needed to catch him, to set things right.

Abby got up from the floor, discarded the empty bottles of contained alcohol and grabbed a bottle of water before lighting another smoke and burying her head in the case. 

* * *

><p>December.<br>Friday.  
>Same day.<br>08.02

"Wow, you're here early."

Abby looked up from her notes to find a charismatic, clean face of detective Towers. She suddenly noticed how smooth his skin still was, there were no lines in his long-stretched with strong, fierce jaws, face. His eyes, small and bright blue, were still avid, curious and sparkling. His dark blond, curved at the end eyebrows were not pressed together nor did his eyes hid behind them. His small but well-filled lips were still able to form a genuine smile. As she studied his face in a few seconds, it hit her that he would become a hell of a detective.

Abby smiled kindly. "I could say the same to you."

Towers shrugged as he sat down and placed the paper-brown envelope, the coffee and bagel bag on the table. "I'm still the rookie. You're the FBI agent."

"Don't worry, we've all been rookies one way or the other."

"Yeah." Towers sighed and offered Abby one of the carbon cups. She gladly accepted it, JJ not having around to understand how Chicago PD coffee machine's work. "Don't you sometimes ever wish you just could be someone else? Someone that's already been through it?"

"Get a lot of hazing?"

"It's not my colleagues or any cop in this station for that matter. It are the people I come across, y'know, 'normal citizens'. 'Oh dear, aren't you a little young to be a detective already?' 'Are you sure about that young man?'" Abby laughed at him as he dropped the funny face, the high pitched voice and the mimic of person whom had doubted him. "How did a Brit end up with the FBI anyway?"

"Dual citizenship. My mum was British, my dad's American."

He nodded and bent forward. "So…What are you working on?"

"Uhm, just trying to answer some questions, really."

"Questions? Like what?"

Abby put the files in her hand on the table and placed her arms on the table, and leant on them. "Where did he meet his targets? Why did he choose the girls he chose, why them? What do they mean to him? Did he intend to kill Gerard and Polen? If so, then why didn't he kill the other girls? If not, what happened that they ended up dead in an abandoned alley? Did he canvas the area for alley like the ones he choose or did he run into them because of his work? Why prostitutes? What does he have against them?"

Towers blew some air between his teeth. "That are a lot of questions. I can't answer all of them" Abby snorted at his good willingness, "but I do know that that great coffee you're drinking, comes from a coffee shop on the corner of Exchange Avenue."

Abby stared at her cup. "That could mean he would work in the same area. Could possibly live in the same area as well." Abby said, remembering Reid's words as he worked on the geographical profile.

"It's a pretty famous coffee shop here in the 4th district."

"Okay, so that's one question possibly answered."

"Now the rest." The young detective finished her sentence. Abby smiled at him, her mind working overtime at the early hour of dawn and there was something she was missing. She turned in her chair and her eyes found the pictures on the bulletin boards, but they remained silent.

"Oh, before I forget." Detective Towers had risen from his seat and headed towards the door when he stopped and spun around on his feet. He had taken his bagel bag and coffee, without a doubt one for Quinn and one for himself, but left the envelope. Abby tore her gaze from the boards and met his face. "Someone dropped that off for you at the front desk couple of minutes ago." Towers turned back to the door and left the room.

She sat frozen on her seat, unable to lift one finger in the direction of the brown container. All she could do was stare as if the spot where it laid had gotten cursed, until, eventually, courage re-conquered her body again and she grabbed it. More pictures. By now, she could start a gallery. There was a note as well, and she didn't need an excellent memory to remember the words that were scribbled down in black ink. Someone turned the time notch to slow motion. The grip around her throat suddenly became tighter. Someone was sitting down on her chest and it got harder to breath. Her temperature went up, the room got hot and she felt like being on fire as she swore she felt the sweat run down her back like she was taking a shower. Her heart was beating hard, strong and avividly in her chest and throat, her body practically shaking with every beat that hit her like a bat constantly swung at her. The confined room she was in imploded and the walls were coming at her. Her vision got blurry again on the sides, she felt dizzy and light headed.

"Morning Frankie." As Reid's voice reverberated through the room, everything else seemed to go at its normal speed again. The air was clear and refreshing in her lungs, the grip loosened and serenity and control settled back down in her body. "Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Low on caffeine" Abby joked and sat down before her legs would give in. Reid was studiously watching her, his eyes reading so many things, his mouth saying so little. "What are you doing here so early?"

"Just wanted to get some work done before the rest came in." She lied, trying to keep her composure and managed to keep Reid's attention away from the envelope.

* * *

><p>December.<br>Friday.  
>Same day.<br>09.15

One for one, the team had left their warm, beloved beds and returned into this cold and cruel world. Reid still had the looks and he kept a close eye on Abby, whom did her best to ignore him as she paced up and down the room past the bulletin board, knowing now for sure that she was missing something, there was something requesting her attention but she didn't know where to look. Apparently, she looked like crap. Both Prentiss and Rossi had separately blurted it out, causing Reid and Hotch to look at her once more. When Morgan walked in the room, Abby had to master all her abilities to lie and pretend and fool but deep inside, she could feel it kicking. Her consciousness. '_Yeah, I know, I know_'. For a second, she understood why Morgan had been able to keep his past a secret for so long. She could read nothing of his face, nor in his eyes. A series of lucky escapes haunted her the rest of the morning and she felt like looking over her shoulder to see when it would come, 'it' that would crush the life right out of her. But it didn't.

She stood outside and wanted to disappear in her warm, feather-stuffed coat. Abby couldn't even tell the difference anymore between her breath and the smoke she blew into the air. A fresh layer of snow casted a happy Merry-Christmas feeling over this part of Chicago and she had to admit, last night, when it was dark and the snow was falling, the reflection of the many city lights in the white snowflakes; it looked enchanting. Almost pretty. Then again, at that time she was safe and sound inside a warm hotel room. Right now, she stood outside, huddled in a corner, her face half buried in her collar, balancing on one foot before shifting her weight to the other. Despite yesterday's impressions, the police department was visited often and at some point, Abby resisted the urge to look once she heard the sound of the door. And right now, she could hear his footsteps in the crackling snow; heavy, long strides, determined. That had to be Morgan. She turned her face, squinted in the bright light coming from the sky and watched him approach her. He caught her glance and positioned himself with his back partly towards the entrance, looking over Abby's shoulders. She would do the same and outsiders, particular intelligent and sign-reading outsiders, could see it clearly. They were literally watching each other's backs, both of them on guard, sharp and defensive, their hushed conversation intimate and not for other people's ears.

Before he could speak, Abby opened her mouth. "I know. Really, really bad idea." She kept spinning on her heels to look around, part of her not wanting to face Morgan, the other part on the look-out. He was angry, but she couldn't tell if he was angry at himself, her or both of them. Perhaps he was angry at something completely different.

"These things can't happen Abby."

"I know, Derek, I know, okay?" She tried to keep her voice down and her facial muscles as calm as possible because people had eyes and brains and they could use it.

"We said-" She interrupted him, brutally and abruptly.

"I know."

"We-"

"I know." Abby kept breaking into his sentences, frustration growing between the two of them, standing there recklessly arguing like a couple.

"A-"

"I know!"

"Would you stop saying that?" Morgan snapped at her. Abby kept her mouth shut and merely look at him, shocked that he reacted like that. He sighed, look at the ground, took a step back and them a few away, towards the steps that interlaced the PD with the street. Abby lit another smoke and glanced around, hoping nobody was looking at them. She pushed her back into the wall and leant against the concrete. "Derek.."

He glanced over his shoulder and looked at her. But she didn't know what to say. And so he walked away, back inside, mumbling something about the profile as he did.

Suddenly, she saw him. Or at least she thought she did. There was a man standing across the street on the corner, hidden in the darkness, covered by a large, leave-less tree. As she blinked, he was gone and she wondered if her imagination was playing games with her or that he was really there, standing there, looking at her, watching, observing, knowing. As per usual, shivers rolled down her back and her mind took her places she didn't want to go. Abby tossed the cigarette away and hurried back inside, glaring over her shoulder a couple of times. She headed back toward the appointed room and noticed it was a rather long walk back to it. The faces on the sides of her vision become those of monsters; blurry, pulled apart and vague. She felt her heart beat once and it was like she got hit by the truck that came from the small street she didn't bother to check. One of the detective was a cowboy and he had thrown two ropes around her chest and now they were all pulling at her; one from the left, one from the right. The pressure was too much and she felt her lungs getting pulled together, tighter and tighter. The world started spinning and she remembered thinking if the world started spinning, it had to be the end of it. Abby was twelve feet away from the room, the door stood open and she knew for sure that if she entered, she would be back in chilly Chicago and leave the Sahara behind her, the burning sun and the flushing sweat. Rhinos walked up and down over her back, her heart was racing and beating violently in her chest and throat, rain ran down her body and face and darkness was closing in on her as sounds became muted. Then she saw Reid and his vibrant eyes that widened, he called out her name, confusion written in the lines on his face, more people looked and stared and Hotch and Morgan rushed out of their seats and out of the room.

Chicago PD had decided to pain their walls in craftsman brown and decorated their floorings with a living luxury anthracite carpet. The colour brown they had chosen was pretty good; smooth and soft, delicate yet professional. But as she noted the carpet, it became clear to her that it was black with white/grey dots, as whilst looking at the general picture, it held a brownish glow. Just before she hit the ground, Abby decided their colour combination was wrong and then everything went black and she didn't even feel her body slamming into the short and rugged carpet; liking kissing a man that hadn't shaved in days.

* * *

><p>December.<br>Friday.  
>Same day.<br>19.48

Hotch was sitting in the uncomfortable hospital chair, his left leg swung over his right, a case file and paper notes in his lap, but his eyes were diverted towards the with blinds covered windows. One finger was placed before his lips, his hand supporting his head, and the other hand and fingers played with the corner of the light brown container. He was deep in thoughts, his breathing steady and heart beat rhythmic. Abby could tell all this from the sounds or lack of sounds coming from the white-painted hospital room. A machine was beeping, waking her annoyed and vicious. There was a needle in her hand, still pinching and hurting her skin, wires and leads running around and attached to little stickers that irritated her skin, the pulse monitor on her index finger too tight and crushing her bones.

She hated hospitals.

"He uses a substitute." Abby had opened her eyes and rotated her head soundlessly and watched her supervisor's face snap towards the source of sound. If he was relieved, he didn't show. If he was furious, he didn't show. If he was scared, he didn't show. If he was worried, he didn't show. If he was pissed, he didn't show. His expression remained blank as he rose from the red chair and made his way to the bed with the white sheets. "But you already figured that out." Abby stated, her voice hoarse and she noticed it was dark outside.

Hotch must have seen her looking. "It's almost eight PM."

"What happened?" She rubbed her face and tried to get up. Hotch moved forward and helped her by pulling up the headrest and locking it whilst explaining. Abby leant down again, this time her torso elevated and in an almost sitting position. "You passed out."

"I did?"

"You sound surprised."

"People normally don't just pass out. I ate, I drank, I have no heart problems, no blood pressure issues, I'm not diabetic and I wasn't shot or in pain or anything."

"Doctor says high blood pressure." Hotch replied stiff and grim.

"High blood pressure? Really?"

"Your symptoms looked like that of a panic attack-" Abby opened her mouth to speak but by simply raising his hand, he silenced her, "elevated blood pressure, high heart rate, sweating, disorientated. Your body showed signs of a panic attack, but your mind wasn't panicking. It got to the doctors quite baffled. They called it an inward panic attack."

"An inward panic attack?" Abby snorted after repeating the diagnoses and closed her eyes.

"Doc says it wouldn't be long before your mind starts panicking as well."

"Hotch-" Her amused smile faltered when she saw his face and wondered if she had died and met the devil.

"You passed out in the middle of a police station. You've been unconscious for eleven hours. Doctors call it some sort of panic attack. We're in the middle of a case and another girl has been found dead and you're here laughing at it all."

"Wow, wow, another girl?"

"Do you have any idea how serious this is?"

"Hotch, I had no idea-"

"You nearly died."

Abby's mouth was left open but nothing would come out. She closed it, pursing her lips shortly before looking down.

"Your mind was in shock and your body in a serious panic attack. It took them almost an hour before they managed to get your rhythm down to acceptable. What if you were driving? What if we were in the middle of a situation, what if someone was held at gun point? Someone could have died, you, could have died. What the **hell** is going on with you. And don't you even dare to say you're fine."

Abby sighed and sought for words whilst she avoided his staring, penetrating gaze. "I don't know." Hotch was ready to jump at her throat but she stopped him. "I haven't been sleeping well, but last time I checked, that didn't cause this."

"What does 'well' mean in that context? Have you been sleeping at all?"

"Not much, really."

"You promised you'd come to me."

"Technically, I said that if I had any problems with the job, not the actual-"

"You're really telling me your sleeping problems have nothing to do with the job? With what's been going on?"

"It has nothing to do with the BAU." She locked her eyes with his and returned a grim and stark stare. But it didn't help, Hotch kept staring her down and she felt like a four year old getting scorned at for stealing from the cookie jar.

"I am your superior and you failed to mention this to me. You've been acting foolish, stupid, irradical and irresponsible. When we've solved this case, I suggest you take a couple of days off."

"Hotch.."

"Do it voluntarily or I'll suspend you, pending an investigation regarding your mental and physical health." His voice was strong, loud and set. His eyes were still blazing, his brows knitted together and lines on his forehead. There was so much more going on that she knew at this point, she could see it.

"Yes sir."

"Why did Wills transfer you?"

"I don't-"

"Your supervisor transferred you. Why?"

Abby's eyes widened and she felt like she got hit by a freight train. It got hard to swallow and the pressure on her shoulders returned. She could hear that the monitor registered the change of heartbeat. "What?"

"Wills applied for your transfer." His voice was softer now, his expression mixed with a little more mercy. The lines slowly faded, the fury in his eyes dampened and his brows un-knitted so they could make way for surprise, confusion and curiosity.

"Wills did?" Her voice sounded weak in her own ears, not as much in loudness, for she was partly whispering, but it sounded defeaten. Suddenly, she wasn't so sure of her friends anymore, of everything that had been happening during her last month at the SCU and the road at the BAU.

"You didn't know."

Abby shook her head and wished he would go away. But he didn't. Instead, he placed his hand shortly on hers and sat down again, leaving Abby to fight her thoughts and emotions. She wished her would go away, leave her be and let her drown in her own mind. She was a volcano and she needed to explode.

"I saw her." She halted, waited for _something_ and felt Hotch listening to her in the darkness. "Wednesday, I saw her. We talked. We laughed. We drank and brought back memories. Wills never does anything without consulting the team, never."

Suddenly, it all became clear and Abby lost sight on lines and borders and sides and warriors. Her world got mixed up and right was wrong and wrong was right. Morals were tumbled together and enemies suddenly looked like friends. She needed to get her head straight. Perhaps those few days off would actually do her some good. She had to find out what was right and what was wrong.

"I heard Paul Newman spoke to you before he died." Abby didn't reply and left Hotch having his conversation with the shades. She wished he would leave. "What happened to your team members wasn't your fault."

"I know."

"Abby-"

She cut him off. "I know. Doesn't mean it hurt any less."

* * *

><p>"<em>Inhale, and God approaches you. Hold the inhalation, and God remains with you. Exhale, and you approach God. Hold the exhalation, and surrender to God."<br>_Krishnamacharya


	5. And everything collapses

"_It's so curious: one can resist tears and 'behave' very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer... and everything collapses."  
><em>Colette

* * *

><p>December.<br>Friday.  
>Same day.<br>23.03

Abby was glad she got a lonesome room. There was nobody else that could see her, or to complain about the noise coming from the television. The nurses left her alone and Hotch had left a couple of hours ago after a phone call. Not another word had been wasted on the sensitive subject. For over an hour, Abby had been fighting herself until she finally managed to wrap her head around the case and the ball started rolling again. Their Unsub was using substitutes, probably for his dominant wife or girlfriend at home. She guessed wife and they had been married for over five years. That made their Unsub in his late thirties to forties, which also corresponds with the maturity of his crimes. Lashing out towards vulnerable prostitutes meant that there was a lot of unused rage inside him and he hates his life. He could be a narcissist, but Abby wasn't sure. By now, the team was probably back in their hotel rooms, getting ready for another day. Today they interviewed some of the victims and Morgan and Rossi had focussed on victim number six, Gina Travel. She was nineteen and beaten to death, two minutes of the last crime scene. According to Morgan, her face was beaten to pulp and there wasn't much left of it. More rage. Rossi safely concluded their Unsub was deteriorating. As she was flipping past the channels, hoping she would find JJ's face on one of them, she was expecting a call from Hotch and right at that time, the phone on the white nightstand next to her starting ringing.

"Hotch, I've been thinking about-" A wave of nausea overwhelmed her, along with arctic shivers and a sense of angst she never really felt before. She could feel it. She could feel _him_.

"Hello darling."

For a second, he took her breath away. "Listen to me, you fuck-"

"Now now, such language. That's not nice, _Abby_. Aren't you glad to hear my voice? I know I am." His voice was low, almost hoarse and whispering, but too strong to actually be. Suddenly, she could feel his cold hands back on her back, tracing her skin, the flow of it, the scars, the smoothness.

"I'll be glad when you're dead, buried and rotting away in a cheap coffin you son of a bitch. Leave me, the hell, alone or I'll your ass and kill you myself." She gave him no more room to reply and hung up immediately. She stared at the phone for a few moments, her fists clenched together in anger, her breathing slightly increased. Abruptly, she noticed the shade in the doorway and the hurt she felt from not having her Glock on her side, was white-hot and fierce and almost took her breath away again.

"Hey Frankie."

"Reid."

He smiled apologetic, like he always did, uncomfortable and awkward, playing with the leather shoulder bag. "I knew there was something." He said it disappointing, not at all proud that he got it right, yet there was a slight trace of 'told you so'. Sorrow and sadness filled his voice and dashed his face as he stepped forward and halted at the end of her bed. "Who was that?"

To lie or be a saint.

"That was my ex… Husband."

"You were married?" The saddened look and tone of voice dissipated in thin air and Reid sat down, not at all shocked, rather surprised and curious.

"Hard to believe, eh?"

"I'm sorry."

Honesty choked her and she found herself unable to reply. Instead, she looked down at her hands and the sheets, waiting for Reid to continue.

"I figured you wanted to go over the profile." He said meekly.

Abby nodded and looked up again. "Yeah. I've been looking for JJ's face but I haven't found her yet."

"It should be in the air already. Anyway, Morgan and Rossi are patrolling. I just thought I'd visit you, I bet you're dying to know what's been going on."

"I am, so don't leave me hanging."

"We talked to almost all the surviving victims, with exception of the first. He doesn't stand out and comes across rather shy. He's a white male, tall, middle aged. We're still figuring out what he takes to be his souvenirs, as he takes nothing from the victims. He would get very upset if they didn't follow script. According to his crimes, we're estimating that there are at least five more, earlier, victims."

"It's all about power and dominance, he's able to stand up to those prostitutes but not to the woman in his life he really wants to stand up against." Abby noted.

"Exactly. He's also rather violent for a rapist, 75 to 84% of all registered rapists in the US never used violence. He even used violence as initiate; he hit them in the face before starting anything. Before and during the rape he pounded into their chests and kicked the inner thighs. What is most remarkable is that he didn't climax. It ended when his victims said 'You are right, you're better than me. I will do what you want. You're my master, you were right'."

"You are right and then you were right?"

Reid nodded, his eyes expectantly watching her.

"He went from present to past tense. That could mean something's happened in that period it's representing."

"Garcia hasn't found anything yet, but she's still looking. Hotch did a cognitive interview with Jody Pierce and she remembered that he wore some sort of uniform."

"Like a cop?" Abby asked in disbelieve.

"No, more like an electrician, or a plumber, a carpenter, something like that."

"Well, a plumber does clean up people's mess." Reid nodded in agreement. "What about the profile?"

He didn't need to grab a file or anything, he summed up the profile, having mesmerised every word. "The Unsub is male of above average intelligence, between the age of thirty to fifty, married and he could have children. He's tall, well-built and strong. He works a nine to five unimportant job, in a big branch and/or office where he is easily unnoticed, near or around Exchange Avenue. He's a sadistic narcissist and he's looking for control. He feels as if he has been unnoticed for his entire life and has been rejected in his life very often. He probably comes from a single-household-home or his parents were never home. He is married to a rather dominant woman and he can't stand it; he's stuck in a supressing marriage. He's looking for ways out of his home controlled environment. To the outside, it might all seem perfect, but it's all disassociated and a disguise for him to hide his superficial personality. The Unsub could be described as two-faced; he can abruptly lash out or exploded. There are also times that he would space out mentally. In the last years, it's possible he went through a dramatic personality change. From achiever, energetic and ambitious, he has changed into a sober, quiet, almost depressed man. He can be quite aggressive, and this aggressiveness can have intertwined with his sex-life. There are three characteristics for sexual sadists; compulsive, chronic masturbation, constant daydreaming and social isolation. He covers his antisocial behaviour up by his ability to empathise perfectly and he gets away with it. Yet there is something off about him. As a child, he could have been arrested for peeping and or indecent exposure."

Abby nodded her way through the profile. "He's targeting prostitutes because they are easy to control. It's only a matter of time before he moves up the ladder."

"Which is why we're patrolling." Reid answered.

"You're not going to catch him like that. He's intelligent, he probably watches the news and knows we're on to him. He'll be smart."

"He killed another girl. Smashed her face. We're hoping he can't control his urges. The gaps are getting shorter, even if he's accidentally killed his target. He's accelerating and losing it."

"We might be able to lure him with some sort of trap though, in another area. We have to figure out in what area he lives and works. He most likely will move away from his comfort zone, away from his home."

"Spiral search pattern, already on it."

"Do we have any idea where he lives or works?" Abby asked tired.

"Seeing one of the victims remembered a uniform, we believe he either works in that area or travels through it on his way home. He despises women, probably a traumatic event in his youth that centred around his mother."

"How does Hotch plan on catching him?"

Reid shrugged. "We hope we can catch him in the act."

"Fat chance."

The man at her bedside remained silent and it was all that she needed.

* * *

><p>December.<br>Saturday.  
>Next day.<br>08.29

The rest of the night, she had laid still and listened to the heart monitor that registered her heartbeat and was mechanical prove that she was still alive. The days that she questioned that fact had started to pile up and more often, she found herself too numb to feel a thing. She doubted that she was still human and that she had transformed into some government robot. Today, however, too many emotions raged through her chest, too many thoughts in her head to be lifeless. She wished they were all about the case, but that was a lie; not even half of them focussed on what they should be focussing on. She kept repeating her conversation with Hotch and Reid, replaying their sentences, their words, their expressions before her eyes in HD. She was losing her mind, but most importantly, she was losing her disguise, herself.

Reid talked her through the Gina Travel case. Young girl, brunette, brown eyes, prostitute. She ran away from her home two weeks ago and it was her third day on Exchange Avenue. That either meant their Unsub knew she was new and that increased the possibility that she would come with him; the risk of getting recognised was getting larger and larger as prostitutes now knew the FBI was looking into the case and looking out for them. Or it meant pure, dumb luck. Abby guessed the first. Their Unsub was smart and it was as much about sex as it was about the prostitutes. Both of them didn't matter; they were the shells that carried the important load; the control. The rage finally getting out of the cage. Just like his act was the shell that carried the monster. The wife probably wouldn't stand up. She was cold, harsh, cruel, dominant and egocentric. Most likely a complete narcissist as well. Such a person would not step into the police department and admit that her husband killed those woman because of who she was. The more Abby thought about it, the less appealing the thought became as she imagined being in the same position.

"Frankie."

She had been deep in thoughts, Travel's autopsy opened in her hands as she slowly headed towards their 'FBI' room. Abby looked up and found JJ approaching her, holding a Chicago Bears coffee mug.

"Morning JJ."

"Hey, how are you."

Abby diverted her gaze for a second, obviously acting dramatic. "I'm fine. How are you?"

"Don't give me that look, you were the one collapsing in the middle of the police station and spend the rest of your day asleep in a hospital bed."

"Missed me?" Abby smirked at the blonde and continued her walk to the separate room.

"Terribly. Coffee?"

"Yes please and God I missed you!" She joked and entered the office.

"Look who's back."

She hadn't seen him. If she had, she would have entered differently, she would have prepared herself and guarded her fences. Nonetheless, she smiled at Morgan, whom sat in the corner of the room, slowly sipping on his morning coffee.

"Did you miss me?" She joked again, pretending to hope he did, pouting and looking sad.

"Terribly."

She snorted.

"How're you feeling?"

"Fine."

An uncomfortable silence fell between them as Abby tried her hardest to ignore it. Yet, at some point, she couldn't handle his constant, fierce and burning stare and found his eyes. "What?"

"Nothing." Morgan shrugged.

Abby sighed and made her way towards the last added billboard. "Sleep deprived. Doesn't work out too well for ya, apparently."

"Does it have anything to do with Paul Newman?"

She exhaled loudly and looked down, biting on the end of her tongue. "Last time I checked we didn't do personal."

"Just making sure I can count on you."

"Talking about sleep, shouldn't you catch up on that?" She turned on her heels to look at him and then focussed back on the bashed face of Gina Travel. Again, no traces, no evidence. Coroner did find an imprint of a ring in her skull, but it was simple – no insignia or anything. Probably a wedding ring.

Morgan didn't reply.

"Just making sure I can count on you." Abby repeated his sentence, more to herself than to him, half her brain already back on track, her thumb pointed in the air, waiting for the night train. It was time.

The rest of the team found their ways into the room where Hotch started handing out the assignments. Morgan and Rossi were sent to their hotel rooms to catch at least a few hours of sleep in the hope of them looking less like walking zombies. JJ and Reid were working the tip-line and Hotch and Prentiss were scheduled to speak to Travel's family.

"Where does that leave me?"

"You just take it easy today?" Hotch told her, his coat swung over his arm and he barely gave her a look.

"What does that mean?"

"It means-"

"Ya, no, I know what it means, but what does that mean I can do?" Abby corrected herself, not having the rest or serenity to sit down.

Hotch sighed and rubbed his forehead. He always did that whenever it concerned her and she wondered if she gave him headaches, or that it was the case; the fact that their killer was still on the loose and they weren't one bit closer at catching him since patrol was a big nothing and he had the media and Strauss breathing down his neck. The media because of that same still uncaught killer and Strauss because she heard of Abby's decision to go flying down into the carpet. Adding to all of that, that same person that went involuntary flying, being excruciatingly stubborn and sealed tight like Fort Knox.

"You okay with interviewing the first victim? She's supposed to be here at ten." Both Rossi and Morgan sent their supervisor a cautious glare.

"Ya, why not?"

"She going to have to relive her worst memory, you up for that?"

"Ya. I'm fine. We have to catch this guy."

Rossi smiled to himself. "You might want to try a more subtitle approach."

"What is this, Judgement day? I can handle a simple interview."

"That's the whole point, it's not a simple interview. This girl has been raped, humiliated, beaten and left for dead. She's been through a huge trama-"

"I got it." She stared back at Hotch, his eyes angry and furious, hers cool and calculated. Cold. "I'm not a rookie. I can handle it. I'll be nice."

"Scott?"

"What?" She turned to Rossi and he returned her glare.

"Try to empathize a little."

Empathize. Empathy. She hated that word, always did. She used it a lot in her line of work and always did well. She managed to empathize and be nice, but it definitely wasn't her strongest ability. Not when it were victims. She preferred to expose her teeth, smile evilly, be the devil in disguise in the form of a caged lion. She needed something to fight. Something that challenged her and just kept on challenging. Reid challenged her, his intellect did. His knowledge and experience. Perhaps that was why they got along so well. She could fight Hotch, a head-to-head collision, two Spartans in a box. With Morgan, it was different. It seemed that he didn't want to challenge her, he didn't want to fight her. He did want to inspire her, keep her focussed and sharp, but whenever their headlights would meet, he would always walk away. Perhaps that was why she couldn't do personal with him, because she couldn't read him, she couldn't fight him. He was relentless and fierce and unpredictable.

"I got it."

* * *

><p>December.<br>Saturday.  
>Same day.<br>10.02

Lizzie Makowsky was a once pretty girl. The fact she was less pretty now than before, had little to do with the large cut across her cheek, nor with the scar across her throat. She was eighteen, but already faced death more than once. No, what really caused her to be less pretty, was the look in her eyes. She had been a prostitute for two years after her parents died and she didn't want to end up in foster care. Her eyes seemed older, almost grey-like. They had seen much and she had been through inhuman conditions to stay alive and survive. In just a couple of years, she had aged at least ten. And that knowledge, was reflected in her eyes.

Abby approached her softly, her footsteps soft into the carpet, her walk short and careful, but not too obvious. Swiftly, she made her way to the young girl and she sat down next to her after she introduced herself.

"Lizzie Makowsky? Hi, I'm Abby Scott."

Lizzie studied the woman for some time before she smiled weakly.

"Do you know why you're here?"

"You're hunting the son of a bitch that-" She stopped in mid-sentence and didn't seem to want to finished it. Whilst her attitude and words were hard, she couldn't actually speak about the event itself. "Yes."

"What do you want from me?"

"I know the police already interviewed you, but I was hoping that you would want to talk to me again. About what happened to you."

"Why?"

"Perhaps you remember some things now that you didn't remember then. Also, I'm going to ask you some different questions. It's called a cognitive interview and it's all focused on your own experience during the event."

Lizzie nervously bit down on her nail and turned her head away.

"It's okay, I understand if you don't want to do this."

"I talked to some of the girls. They say the police and the FBI are constantly on the streets, talking to them. They say you're really looking into this."

"We are, Lizzie, we are."

"Do you want to catch him?"

"Yes. I do."

"Then do what you have to do." There were tears in her eyes when she rotated her head back to meet Abby's eyes. But her mien was strong and determined.

"Okay." Abby nodded and took her in for a moment to make sure she was really up to it. For as far as she could tell, Abby figured she was going to be fine.

"I want you to close your eyes and go back to Friday sixteenth. What did you do that day?"

Lizzie kept quiet and took a deep breath, absentmindedly rubbing her hands again the fabric of her jeans. "I woke up late because I worked till about four in the morning. I avoided my landlord and went for some groceries."

"Do you remember what you got from the store?"

"Uhm…" She shook her head and frowned. "Milk. I think. And some food, I can't remember."

"That's okay."

"Cat food, cat food for mister West."

"Okay, that's good. And then?"

"I got back but he saw me."

"Who saw you?"

"My landlord, we argued, I still hadn't paid my rent. I told he'd get it that night. After that, I hung around my apartment, watched some television at a friend's and got ready for work." She halted and softly gasped for air as memories came flooding back.

"What do you remember?"

She shook her head again, chewed on the inside of her cheek and loosely crossed her arms before her stomach.

"I don't know I-… I can't remember." Makwosky touched her neck and nervously scratched her skin.

"That's okay. So, at some point while you're working, he approaches you in his car. Where was that?"

"Exchange Avenue, at the corner, in front of the cigarette store."

"Was it hot or cold?"

"Cold. I was only wearing a tank top and skirt. Liddy kept joking about that. I was really cold."

"What did you hear?"

"Uhm.. I heard some people laughing as I talked to him. They exited the coffee shop. There was music coming from his radio. A car was honking."

"That's good, that's really good Lizzie. So he approached you in the car, did you talk to him?"

"Yeah."

"What did his voice sound like?"

"It was soft."

"What did it smell like?"

"Uhm, I don't-.. I don't know. Like glue.. Glue and the sewer?"

"That's good Lizzie, you're doing really well, we're almost there. After you got in his car, what happened?"

Lizzie's body retreated itself, she shook her head to the side once and her hands started shaking. "Uhm.. He started driving and stopped after a few minutes. He got me into the alley when he hit me and he-…" Tears started to painfully glide down her pale cheeks and Lizzie bowed her head.

"That's okay, it's okay Lizzie. Afterwards, do you remember if he said anything?"

She shook her head. "No. But he-.."

"Go on."

Lizzie opened her eyes and looked straight at Abby. "He took a picture. Of me."

Abby nodded slowly and placed her hands on Lizzie's knees, the gesture gentle and reassuring. "You did well, Lizzie, you did so well. I have one last question, okay? Then we're done."

She wiped some tears away, took another deep breath and nodded.

"Lizzie, I know you're hiding something." She looked up at Abby in shock and surprise, her eyes widened and the muscles in her face tense. "I need to know what you're hiding from me."

Tears welled up again and she started sobbing. Abby didn't move, and left her hands right where they had been. "It's my fault."

"What's your fault?"

"What happened, it's my own fault. I'd seen him days before he attacked me. He was following me, taking pictures of me."

"He was stalking you?"

Lizzie nodded.

"Listen to me." The young brunette looked up at her, her face sheer in pain, disgust, shame and hurt. "What happened to you, was not your fault. Okay? This is on him and on him alone." Abby's words were strong and clear and she hoped she got through the young girl. She smiled meekly and asked an officer to stay with Lizzie Makowsky as she headed back towards the room that was appointed to their case.

As soon as Makowsky was out of sight, she hurried towards the room, nearly running and slammed the door shut the moment she entered. The team looked up startled and Hotch was about the open his mouth to speak when Abby already did.

"He's a biastophiliac. Makowsky remembered the scent of glue and the sewer, he's a plumber. He probably won't have a criminal record for he has been dominated by women all his life. His mother probably managed to keep him under control. He's married but has no kids because he's impotent. His wife cheated on him, in his eyes she's a 'whore', so she's equal to prostitutes and that's why he's targeting them. That's why his victims need to tell him that he's right and they are wrong. He targets the young ones because they probably met in high school, like high school sweethearts. If Chicago PD hadn't called in sooner, he would have already climbed up the ladder and moved from prostitutes to single young women. He's a serial killer in the making and I know how we can catch him." Abby paused to catch her breath. "He stalks them. Lizzie Makowsky said that he had been watching her for a couple of days prior to the assault and he took pictures of her. Before and after."

"He's collecting them." Rossi said stark.

"He's creating a collage. A before and after shoot."

* * *

><p>"<em>The one permanent emotion of the inferior man is fear - fear of the unknown, the complex, the inexplicable. What he wants above everything else is safety."<br>_Henry Louis Mencken


	6. Expression of villainy

"_Barring that natural expression of villainy which we all have, the man looked honest enough."  
><em>Mark Twain

* * *

><p>December.<br>Saturday.  
>Same day.<br>18.06

Everything had been set up. Police patrols had been diverted. Foot patrols had been given strict orders to stay away. Undercover cars had been parked at front, ready for action. Agents had been fully equipped. All officers had been briefed. There was a trace of tension, hanging in the air like clouds on a rainy day. It was unusually quiet and even those not fully involved, felt it and remained silent, watching and whispering to colleagues to know what was going on. Secretive glances were stolen, looks of reassurance or doubt were exchanged, yet, this was not the time. Like King Leonidas said to his loyal Spartans, the defenders of their country, ready to die and shed their blood for family, friends and strangers, they hadn't need to worry. They had to be strong, their faces turning into stone to cast fear and anxiety off.

Hotch didn't leave Prentiss' side. He kept talking to her, going over the plan with her time after time. Morgan was there too, double checking everything, from his own equipment, to others, to hers. Rossi and JJ stood a few feet away, watching, silently talking. Quinn was there too, with Towers, next to them. The young detective looked nervous; this was probably his first real undercover operation. Tension hung in the air, fingers trembled and was desperately fought against. Abby and Reid had taken their very own corner and tried to hide themselves, not speaking, merely observing studiously. Their eyes flashing from one face to the other, sometimes looking at each other.

"Go tell the Spartans, stranger passing by, that here obedient to words we lie."

Reid looked at Abby, his arms crossed before his chest. He nodded at her and stepped forward. "Just remember he uses force as initiate."

Prentiss looked at him, completely turned into another person by the outfit she was wearing. "Right."

Morgan glared at his younger co-worker. "You'll be fine, Prentiss. We're right there."

"So, how do I look?" She asked stressed slightly.

"I'd pay for you." Rossi commented, trying to lighten the mood. It worked; Prentiss smiled and turned to leave.

"Let's go then. Let's catch this bastard." Quinn spun on her heels and exited the room, halting for Towers to follow her. Slowly, they gathered their things and headed towards their spots.

The team figured that if he was watching, stalking his victims, he would know Prentiss, undercover as hooker, would stand out. With the news reports everywhere and the double patrols on Exchange Avenue and areas, he would be like a junkie needing an immediate fix. At least, that's what Rossi figured. The time span between his victims got shorter and shorter, and he guessed that he would be looking. Seeing the dramatic change he's been through, Reid estimated that he could struck tonight, especially when he sees a new, fresh face on the streets. He would be too impatient, driven by the lust for torture, to go through the process of observing them first; like he didn't do that with Isabelle Welsh and Gina Travel either. Now, to him, it was all about the control he needed. At home, his wife would probably be all over him, seeing the news. Perhaps she even recognised him as the Unsub. Perhaps not. Either way, he would be there tonight. And he would go after Prentiss the second that he would see her.

Morgan left with Prentiss and Reid, whom would drop her off at save distance from Exchange Avenue and then take their position. Two prostitutes, Angela and Fairy, Quinn encountered on the streets had agreed to help her out, keep the men away, protect her from those same men and, sometimes, the other girls. Abby pocketed her hands and watched the team walking through the police station, heading towards the exit. Hotch had lingered, grabbed his coat and turned to her.

"You want me to guard the castle Chief?"

"I want you on the roof." He replied, his mien blank.

Abby was surprised that she was part of this operation, but hid her emotions well. "Copy that."

As she went to grab her own coat, her bag and a radio plus earpiece, Hotch spoke again. "Scott."

"Yeah?" She turned to look at him.

"Didn't you receive your sniper certificate recently?"

She wasn't sure if it was a statement or a question, but that didn't really matter. The message was clear and hung in the air between their bodies. One of his agents went undercover to catch a deteriorating violent serial sex offender and he wanted her back home safe and sound.

"On it."

* * *

><p>December.<br>Saturday.  
>Same day.<br>19.14

Her warm breath formed small clouds in the cool air. Her steps left inimical echoes over the cool and hardened concrete. A crescent moon was hanging bright in the sky, stars dashed around as if thrown around. Below, the faint sounds of cars driving by, the chatter of conversations – either short or long and glee reverberated through the lightened street of Exchange Avenue. The city sounds were pleasant to Abby's ears as she approached the edge of the tall building she had positioned herself. She studiously observed the street through her binoculars and sought reminiscent faces. Quickly, she spotted Hotch's car, parked on the corner at the end of the street. Rossi was pretending to read a newspaper about fifty feet from Hotch's position and Morgan, posing as a junkie leaning against a closed store, was somewhere in-between on the other side of the street.

There she was. Prentiss, dressed up in fake leather high heeled heels, a way too short and tight shirt and crawling up skirt, lingered in front of an old, damaged coffee shop. Angela and Fairy were at either side of her, strolling as they feigned to be looking for a pick-up. Abby had chosen a large, wide building, not too high, and with a wide perception range. From the edifice, she could cover most of the street and relaying on the Unsub and where he took his victims, she covered a lot of alleys in the area where the victims were attacked. The cigarette between her index and middle finger coughed up smoke and it circled around in the air. She placed the cigarette between her lips and slung the heavy bag from her shoulder. Within a few minutes, she had assembled her Lobaev SVL sniper rifle. Whilst adjusting her scope, she blew smoke from her mouth and kept a close eye on the streets, always one eye fixed on Prentiss. Abby extended the legs of the bipod attached to her rifle and let the device rest on the wide, low wall. Through the scope, she spotted Prentiss again and quickly found Morgan, Rossi and Hotch. Reid and JJ were parked a block away as back-up, just like Quinn and Towers on the other side of that block.

"Set and ready." She said through the small microphone.

"Copy Scott." Hotch replied. His voice was tensed and thick. Abby couldn't blame him. One of his team members was risking her life to catch an Unsub that could be very well considered extremely dangerous and violent. All Abby could do right now though, was sit tight and still, keep her eyes open and stay sharp.

* * *

><p>December.<br>Saturday.  
>Same day.<br>21.33

It had gotten much colder. Small snowflakes had begun to fall from the sky and slowly painted the scenery. For over two hours, Abby had remained practically in the same position; bent forward, one hand on her rifle, the other close to the trigger, her finger lying close, weight on both feet, her left knee slightly bended. She was lucky that the wall her gun was leaning on was high enough for her not to lower herself. Abby instantly remembered a dark and lonely night in which she was watching a high risk target. Intel had predicted he would make a move and she was assigned to watch him. The target in question had stayed at a friend's house all night and Abby had watched him all night, through her scope, on one knee because the short wall she had chosen to take cover behind and let her sniper rifle rest on, was too low to stand up. She had been limping for two days.

Over the past two hours, Prentiss and her newly found friends had been approached numerous times. One disconsolating soul after the other looked for pleasant company or someone to satisfy his needs. Not once did Angela and Fairy leave Prentiss' side. The radio had been rather quiet till half an hour ago, when Morgan started wondering whether or not their Unsub would turn up.

"Scott."

"Ya."

"Do you see anything?" Hotch asked. He sounded tired and almost defeaten. Abby knew that if he wouldn't show up today, they would have to go at it again tomorrow. They would be able to continue this dance for a short while, but at some point, the team would have to leave it to the hands of Chicago PD and move on to the next case.

"Negative."

"Broaden your search." Rossi suddenly said to her.

She did as she was told and slowly went past the faces that decorated the street. She traced people as they walked on the curb, watched cars that passed them by, looking for that one hint, that one trigger. Inch for inch, she went down the street, looking through her scope hoping she would pick up something. Suddenly, she spotted a van and her muscles ached and complained as she rested her left side against the concrete wall instantly and thoroughly studied the blue van that was parked behind the small kiosk Rossi was standing at. In the darkness, she had trouble seeing if the driver was still seated in the car. Street lights were too far apart from the vehicle and she thought she saw a shade, but couldn't be sure.

"Rossi, there is a blue van parked directly behind the kiosk. Zulu – Foxtrot – Papa 1-9-9-7." Chills ran up and down her spine and she raised her head to look at the car from a distance. Then she looked down through her scope again and looked at the plate once more.

"Copy."

Abby brushed away the feeling and witnessed Rossi smile at the kiosk owner and walk away. He walked right past the van. "Negative, there's no one in it."

"Stay sharp, he might be around if it's his car." Hotch ordered them.

"I don't think it's his." Abby replied.

"Why's that?"

"Georgia plates."

Rossi looked over his shoulder and sighed. "Scott's right, Georgia plates."

"What? You think I spotted that from where I'm standing? I've got a badass scope Rossi."

The elder agent smiled secretively. "I'm sure you do Scott, I'm sure you do."

"Focus guys." Hotch's voice told them through the earpieces in their ears.

"Sorry Chief." Then. On the other side of the street, two black girls, their arms interlaced, laughing and talking, heading towards the end of Exchange Avenue. "Guys, we've got trouble. Morgan, on your eight o'clock, are that your sisters?"

Morgan, hidden in the darkness and a hoodie pulled over his head, his hands pocketed in the large sweater he was wearing, casually glanced in the direction Abby gave him. From a distance, Abby watched the girls approach their brother, Morgan doing nothing.

"Morgan, don't blow your cover."

"I got it." He replied and continued to stand there and do nothing. Hotch' warning words once again broke the soft static in their ears but the handsome man didn't move. He merely looked at them. Abby saw them halter once they noticed him, confusion on their faces and he just stared them down. Somehow, he must have signaled them, because they continued walking, the youngest looking over her shoulder once.

"Good work Morgan."

The man sighed loudly and closed his eyes briefly.

"Guys, there is a van taking a left to Exchange Avenue. There's a large man behind the wheel, but I couldn't see his face." Reid's slightly panicked voice abruptly filled their ears and Abby immediately found the vehicle in her scope.

"Copy Reid, I've got him. Dark green van. Licence plate 0-0-9 4-3-6-8. Illinois plates." Abby said and followed the car with her rifle and eyes.

"Prentiss, you copy?" Hotch asked solemnly.

"I got him."

"He's pulling over." Morgan said once the van halted a few feet away from where the three girls were standing. Prentiss approached the car and the rest of the team could hear their conversation through the small microphone.

"He's wearing a uniform." Hotch said and Morgan started to head in their direction. Before Prentiss got in the car, her eyes went down the many roofs in search of Abby and pulled her shirt down.

"It's him, I've got a positive signal. I repeat, Prentiss gave a positive signal." Abby informed them, remembering the code they had agreed on. She held her position, but was ready to move any time.

"Morgan, get in the car. Reid, JJ, pick Rossi up. I'm right behind the van. Quinn, Towers, follow Reid."

"On it." The female detective replied.

"Copy Hotch."

The car took off and to Abby's eagle eye followed him until he turned the corner. Within seconds, she had repositioned to her right and found the car again. Hotch was right behind them, Morgan had hopped in around the time she moved. Her heartbeat went up, adrenaline and endorphin was pumped into her blood stream and that combination formed a lethal dose to those Abby was chasing. Her fingers ached, tingled with anxiety and the stress this month had brought with it. She kept taking deep breaths; if she would pass out now, she would never forgive herself. But instead of feeling light headed all her senses were sharp. It wasn't hard to breathe; instead, the air was cool and frigid against her insides, nearly cutting her open.

Abruptly, the van parked on the other side of the street and the Unsub and Prentiss got out. "Target has stopped the vehicle, they are exiting it now." Abby witnessed the tall man approaching Prentiss for the second time that night, Prentiss' voice in her ear asking what they were doing here, and then her cry in pain as he hit her square in the face. "Prentiss is down, I repeat, target attacked her, she is down."

A car screeched to a halt and honked his horn loudly and then there was a crash. Abby kept her eyes on Prentiss and the Unsub, but had trouble not to tear her gaze from the couple. Hotch and Morgan were groaning and shortly their voices followed.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine, you?"

"I'm fine, Morgan, go!" Hotch yelled, hissing sounds coming through the earpiece.

Abby broke contact with her lens and found the intersection where two cars had collided. She recognised the black SUV and a large sedan. Morgan jumped out of the car and headed in Prentiss' direction. As she looked back through her scope, her co-worker was getting half dragged, half pulled into something that looked like a park. Through the mic, she could hear her voice and soft cries in agony as the Unsub held her close to him by her hair.

"Reid, where the fuck are you? Hotch' been in an accident, Morgan's in pursuit, where are you? And where's my back-up?" Abby exclaimed and the finger that seemed glued to her rifle, now slowly begun to move towards the trigger.

"Scott, you got the shot?" Hotch asked, speaking directly into the mic as his voice was loud and clear. "Scott? Scott?"

"_C'mon Frankie, give me something." "Frankie, we need to do something." "We don't have much time."_

It was dark. She was suddenly sweating. It was dark. Too dark. She wasn't sure. It could be their Unsub. It could be Prentiss. With her rifle and the type of ammo she used, she couldn't just guess and hope for the best. No. Whomever she shot, she would shoot them to pieces. There was a tree as they got deeper into the park, there was the darkness and she thought she saw Prentiss grab at her back, grab her gun.

"Negative, I do not have the shot." She sighed. "Fuck!"

She picked up her gun and started running to the far right edge of the building. Abby looked through her scope again, but she was positioned too high, she still couldn't see them.

"Morgan, do you see them?" Hotch questioned his colleague.

"No, not yet, but I got Reid, Rossi, Quinn and Towers here. JJ is coming to you. We're advancing into the park." Morgan replied.

"It's not a park, it's a golf club." Reid corrected him.

"Does that really matter right now?"

"It does, Frankie?" The faint buzzing static noise wasn't intervened. "Frankie?"

"Scott, you there?" Rossi repeated.

Her hands burnt. It felt strange without solid ground under her feet as she hung in the air. Her shoes, already worn and torn up, would probably not survive. Abby had thrown a rope over the end of the building, attached it and rapidly repelled down the roof as soon as she noticed she was too high to get a good shot. She didn't like shooting with her gloves on, hence she hadn't even brought them with her. She should have; she brought a rope and wasn't planning on repelling down a building either. Always gotta be prepared her old mentor from the DEA used to say. She jumped the last few metres down, leaving the rope to let it be and the feet of the bipod landed into the roof of the nearest tall car she could find.

"Yeah yeah, I'm here." She finally said.

"Does anybody have a visual?" Hotch asked worried and he and JJ caught up with Abby. She barely looked at him, her eyes were fixed on the images she saw through her scope.

"Don't see a lot here Chief."

"You got night vision?"

"Ya. But it's a risk."

"Do it. We have to know where they are."

Two gunshots followed shortly and gave them a perfect location on where they were. Prentiss screamed and for a moment, Abby feared she had been shot.

Morgan's voice was as stressed as Hotch's. "We got them. We've got a visual."

"I'm okay. I'm okay." Prentiss suddenly spoke to them. As Hotch wanted to reply, she spoke again. "Why are you doing this?" The Unsub was still alive.

Abby replaced her scope with her night vision scope and found figures jogging towards two silhouettes. She found whom she assumed was their Unsub but vibrant green persons kept crossing in-between. She couldn't get a shot, she wasn't ready to make the call. The person spun on his feet as Morgan yelled 'FBI!' and fired another round.

"Morgan!" Reid shouted panicked.

Her cheek broke contact with the scope and she looked up to see the faint beam of light supposedly coming from the attachable flashlight on Morgan's Glock laying on the ground, he groaned in pain and reminiscent memories flashed before her eyes.

"Hotch, it's too dark, we can't see him." Reid whispered as he continued to search for his partner.

"Scott." Hotch turned to Abby, his voice suddenly calm and steady, almost reassuring her. She had repositioned herself and was once again looking through the scope of her rifle. She saw figures, glowing green and moving. Morgan stopped making any noise and she noticed a tall figure standing at his feet – or at least she reckoned it was her partner. The tall figure, it could be Reid, or even Quinn. Perhaps Prentiss.

"Scott. It's your call." Her supervisor informed her.

"_It's a trap! It's a trap! Get out, everyone, get out!" 'Those other people don't mean anything. I want something big. Something good. Something that will make them remember me, like they all remember Hitler. Let's see if you're it, mister Franks, be my Jews and my Army.' __'And, before I die and meet my creator, I wish to thank you. I, Paul Hendrik Newman, thank you, Abby Franklin Scott. You made me famous! Because of you, when I meet Hitler down in the pit, I will be able to look him in the eye and shake his hand and feel equal to him. I wouldn't be able to do that without you, and, of course, without Trevor Harrison!' _

She inhaled, deeply, smelled the scent of winter, snow and brief coldness, the coffee shop on the corner, the smoking man in the small group watching them from a distance. Her finger moved to the trigger, seconds were dissected and microseconds lasted longer than a minute. She heard their voices, inside her head, and she knew. She knew.

'_Always be prepared for the worst, Frankie.' 'Always, always keep your head up darling.'_

Before she exhaled, her finger squeezed the trigger at the exact moment the tall shadow raised his hand and assumingly the gun he was holding. The gunshot echoed through the snow-dashed streets and several people gasped for air. The bipod's feet made scratches in the roof of the car and she quickly checked her shot. Her target was down.

* * *

><p>"<em>It is hard to believe that a man is telling the truth when you know that you would lie if you were in his place."<br>_Henry Louis Mencken


	7. End in heartbreak

"_On that best portion of a good man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered, acts of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, to them I may have owed another gift, of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world, is lightened: - that serene and blessed mood, in which the affections gently lead us on, - until, the breath of this corporeal frame and even the motion of our human blood almost suspended, we are laid asleep"_

William Wordsworth

* * *

><p>December.<br>Saturday.  
>Same day.<br>22.56

Abby had swung her sniper rifle over her shoulder and grabbed her Glock as JJ followed her onto the golf court. Birds softly sang in their ears and the silence was almost deafening. The only thing she missed was chirping crickets and bright, vibrant stars in the sky, next to a crescent moon. As both women approached the scene, sounds came back into their earpieces and suddenly everything came alive again.

"Morgan? Morgan, are you okay?!" Prentiss called out to him, winching in the microphone tucked away in her outfit. Reid as well, called out to his colleague. Abby hadn't heard his voice yet and wondered, feared, if she had shot him.

Abby raised her gun, her right elbow extended outwards, the gun closer to her face. She glanced at JJ and nodded. They turned on their flashlights at the same time and JJ called out. "FBI! Don't move!"

"JJ! It's me, Reid, it's us." Reid appeared in the ray of light with his hands raised. Abby noted the blood and lowered her gun, her expression blank, but the muscles in her forehead and eyebrows stern and stark.

"Guys?! It's Morgan, he got shot." Prentiss spoke and Quinn and Towers approached the group as well, both of them holding flashlights and Abby used hers to find her partner.

"I'm fine." He said suddenly and she found him. His left hand was gripping his right arm as Prentiss applied pressure on his shoulder. "Bastard shot me. He was aiming for a headshot." Morgan looked up at Abby, faintly she could hear Quinn request an ambulance and Hotch was calling out to them as he jogged towards the group. His eyes said it all, he didn't need to speak. Abby knew that if she had hesitated, wondered, lingered or refused, he would be dead. Instead, she had taken the shot and took out their Unsub as he was lining up to kill a team member.

Without looking twice at her colleague, her flashlight found her target's feet and she walked towards the corpse.

"What the hell happened?!" Hotch demanded to know as he had finally found his team.

"He took my gun." Prentiss said, her mien guilty and filled with sorrow. "And then he shot Morgan."

"I'll call an ambulance." JJ said.

"Already on its way, should be in a few minutes." Quinn replied and stood next to Rossi and Hotch.

Prentiss had popped Morgan up against the nearest tree and avoided eye contact with her bloody hands.

"You okay?" Hotch asked his right hand.

Morgan nodded, his face sweaty and he grimaced in pain. "Yeah. I'll be fine."

In the meantime, Abby had found his face and squatted down. Under the exposing white light of her flashlight, his dead face already looked pale, bleak and fresh blood spatters decorated his jaw and cheeks. She followed the trace and found a large hole in the center of his chest, his overall drenched in blood. She shot his heart to pieces. She found it rather ironic that a man with such a level of hatred towards others, would still have room for a heart. As she studied his face again, she flashed back to the first time she saw Paul Newman. She wished she could stare at the face of their Unsub, a man still nameless, and reconcile with Newman's. She wished remembrance would take her back and she would be able to notice the similarities between their blood dashed over their face. But she couldn't. And for the first time in years, a short but powerfully brutal stab was forced into her heart and it took her several seconds to push the emotions away. Her skin hardened again, the darkness made it implode, dry tighter and tighter until it became one solid mass.

Her mind had other things to focus on.

* * *

><p>December.<br>Sunday.  
>Next day.<br>01.18

His shirt was bloody. Paramedics tore it apart to patch up the clean flesh wound under his clavicle. Though he made no sounds, a sheer grimace was painted on his face and his left hand was pulled together in a fist. It would definitely leave a mark. But he had been extremely, almost unlikely lucky. No main blood vessels had been hit or damaged, no muscles had been torn, his bones were still intact and the bullet went through and through. According to the paramedic, but doctors at the hospital had to confirm, he might not even need surgery. Abby shifted her gazed from the strong, handsome deity partner when she heard the rattling of metallic wheels on the pavement. The Unsub, now confirmed as James Clark, was rolled away on a steel, rust-free stretcher with a white sheet covering his body by the coroner and his assistant. They had both called it a clean shot, and whilst observing the scene and keeping a close eye on her team, Abby gave her statement to detective Quinn. Young detective Towers was standing next to him and he seemed caught up in the story as if it was an adventurous children's story.

Easily, Abby recalled the events, her actions and her thoughts. Quinn said it was just a formality. That she had to ask but didn't want to. Abby was merely a computer, running down the statistics and spurting out information like a machine; like Reid could. The young genius was now busy trying to calm Garcia down and desperately looked at JJ for help. The blonde, already given her statement, took over the phone and talked the tech through. Hotch and Rossi were watching the scenery from a distance, his eyes buried underneath a deep frown but he kept his wounded soldier in his field of sight. Prentiss was being looked after by another paramedic and Abby spotted her worried, but rather empty stare at the crimson red colours on her hands. Rossi had been watching from a distance, probably hoping that the black haired FBI agent would find her own way through this maze that had suddenly sprung from the earth, but at some point he decided to end her suffering and he approached her, leaving Hotch to wait as Quinn wrapped up the interview.

"Hey. It was a good shoot."

"What?" Abby studiously watched them load Clark's dead body in the coroner's van and her hair softly caressed her face as she turned her head.

"It was a good shoot." Quinn repeated, Towers nodding feverishly behind her.

"Ya. Thanks."

"Y'know. For a Brit." The elder detective smiled and used her notebook to once tap on Abby's shoulders. She faked a smile and waited as the couple moved down the list of to-do things.

"Yeah." Abby said to herself, sighing heavily as she placed a hand on top of the sniper rifle, back safely stored in the drag bag.

"You talked to him yet?"

Abby head shot to her side and found Reid, his hands tucked in his pocket, standing next to her. He glanced at her face and smiled meekly.

"Talked to who?" She reached into her pockets for a cigarette.

"Morgan."

"No. Should I?" She knew he knew and therefore she didn't fully understand his question. What was his point? Was there an underlying meaning? Where was he going?

Reid snorted. "Abby, you saved his life."

"So?" Big eyes looked partly down on her, Abby being a few inches shorter than Morgan, and she could tell Reid was really lost for words.

"What?! Should I go over there and wait for him to thank me? No, he'll do that when he has time. Right now, he's looking like he wants to kill James Clark but can't because he's already dead. Should I walk up to him and say 'you're welcome'? No, because he obviously has other things on his mind."

_Fuck. Why couldn't it just be Newman?_

"Abby-"

She gave him no further chance to speak; Abby grabbed her rifle, spun on her heels and walked away. She had no idea where, as long as she got away and away from everyone else. Some idiot had lost the keys and some other idiot was unlocking the cuffs of the raging monster deep inside her stomach. Unknowingly and unwillingly, people were lighting the fire that caused his fury, as if they were literally setting it on fire. For the first time in her life, she wondered if she had chosen the right profession and should have become a fire-fighter.

"Excuse me! Abby Scott? Are you Abby Scott?"

She looked up when she heard her name and disorientated, looked around. Abby had reached the end of the crime scene and numerous people had gathered to see if they could taste the long left sensation. Lights of squad cars and street lanterns casted enough light for everybody to look around and see at least half the golf court. In the corner of her eye, she spotted Angela and Fairy huddled away in the shades. A short nod was enough to make them nod back and understand that it had all been taken care off. Then she focused where the sound was coming from of several women calling out to her.

She recognized their faces immediately. Two girls, one mother. Two women with curls, one style. Two tainted mocha brown, one darker. All three worried faces and widened eyes. "Can I help you?"

The mother took the lead, like any good parent would do. "You're Abby Scott, right?"

"Yes ma'am."

"My name is Fran Morgan, my son Derek Morgan is with the FBI-"

Abby raised her hands and interrupted the worried mother. "Yes, I know him ma'am. He's fine. I work closely with your son. He has been shot in the shoulder, but he is going to be fine."

All three Morgan's gasped for air and in Fran Morgan's eyes tears started to well up. No tears, though, of course not. The Morgan Abby knew, would never cry either. They were strong people. _Strong people don't cry_.

"Come with me, you can see him. Let's go." Abby lifted the yellow tape and raised her hand again, but this time towards the police officer that reacted to the sudden lifting of the tape. She showed her badge and took the little family with her towards the ambulance.

"Derek!" Fran called out to him once she spotted her son sitting in the ambulance and hurried towards him. Before Morgan could even react, he was securely wrapped in his mother's embrace. And as he sat there, his family close to him, hugging him, loving him, worrying over him, she suddenly realised that she would never be able to do it.

She wasn't the person that would go for coffee to the mother-in-law on her free Sunday. She wasn't the person that would stand huddled away in a corner with his uncle, making stupid jokes on his birthday. She wouldn't spend two hours in the park picnicking with him on her day off. No. She was the person that would probably drink her coffee at work or at home in her office on her free Sunday. She wouldn't be around on birthdays because she forgot them and she would be working and when she did remember and find the time, she would be late and she would chicken out and call Miles to get drunk. And she wouldn't have the time for a picnic because she always had work to do and she hated picnics. She wasn't able to give him that and she knew that he needed a woman who could give him that. A woman that would be able to tear his mind from his work because the horror he saw clung to his godly body like the shades did at night.

Abby Scott wasn't the person that could do that. She was the person that would confront him with everything they saw because that was what she did. That was who she was. It defined her.

He was twenty feet away, but it felt like they were worlds apart. For countless moments, she looked at him, the space between them feeling like miles. They were worlds apart, whole other universes. It would never work. And she realised that now. He turned his head and met her eyes. There was sorrow on his face, it almost looked like sadness. He already knew. He had made up his mind already, came to the conclusion before she did. She could feel it, deep within her. Her masquerade, her curtain, her mask, her disguise, it was falling apart. December had the tendency to do that to her. February would destroy it all and she could start all over again. But it felt different this time. His hot breath was no longer burning the skin in her neck. No longer did she feel his eyes scorch into the back of her head. No longer did she feel like he was following her, tracing every step she took. No. It was worse. He could be around every corner she turned, because he was right in front of her. His breath was not coming down on her, instead, his freezing, artic hand was on her face, gently caressing her. He was coming. She could feel it. And so December would strike harder than ever before, and February held the potential to destroy her.

She looked into Morgan's eyes. Softly seducing and leaving her aching for his touch. Mercilessly, he stripped her from her guard and left her breathless. Ever since last week, he had started thinking. She could see, the resemblance with Reid's questioning, constantly carefully curious looks was morbid and horrifying. Had she started the clock that counted down to the destruction of the person she was? A relentless warrior - ever so intransigent and unyielding as his superior. Were they her dooms fall? Perhaps she should have listened to _him_. Perhaps she should have.

Her concrete armour nearly suffocated her; armour-plates were placed closer and closer and they softly cried as they slid atop and under each other. She was getting ready. December might have broken her down, she would meet February with her head high and her sword sharp, like a Gladiator back in Rome. She would fight it all and had no idea how anything would end up. Subconsciously, she had locked another box in her brain that enabled her to empathise. She had become a bit colder once again. The key was thrown away and the lock safely secured. To survive this battle, she had to be strong. And right now, she wasn't.

* * *

><p>December.<br>Sunday.  
>Same day.<br>07.18

The calm and serene humming of the airplane was comforting and quietly sung to her as if whispering a child's lullaby. Abby had laid her head to rest against the soft right side of the plane, no one around her in her booth. Morgan was given his favourite place; on the couch, his legs popped up, his sore shoulder supported by pillows, his eyelids closed and his head tilted back. Prentiss had been quiet, but nonetheless was positioned in the row of chairs directly across. JJ and Reid was close as well, Hotch and Rossi a bit further away and asleep like everyone else. The bright light of the rising sun caused her pupils to grow smaller and it nearly hurt.

Hotch, Rossi and Abby had returned to the police station to wrap up the case as the rest of the team stayed with Morgan. When finally the last piece of paperwork was stored in carbon boxes to be left to the compassionless ticking of the clock, JJ called to inform them Morgan was discharged; he needed no surgery. Garcia was more than overjoyed to hear she would be able to pick up her best friend from the airport, but Abby was sure that if Morgan would have to stay, Garcia would already be on a plane towards Chicago.

They could all see clearly that Morgan struggled with the fact his family was there. Not only would it have been hard for him that they saw him hurt with their history, it also must have been hard to leave them behind again. His sisters, Desirée and Sarah insisted that he stayed for at least a couple of days, and Hotch pressed that he could work out the paperwork and handle Strauss at the same time. Yet for some mysterious reason Morgan only explained to Hotch, he refused to stay behind and wanted to come along with the team back to Washington. Abby wondered briefly about his decisions, but the second the plane took off she had rested her head against the headrest and stopped thinking at all.

"Hey."

Her eyes popped open and she found Morgan sitting across from her. Unwillingly, she glanced around to see if others had awoken, but they were the only two. "Hey. You okay?"

"I'll be fine."

"How's the shoulder?"

"Fine. It's only a flesh wound."

Abby nodded and forced her brain to start ticking and think of anything to talk about. She was too tired and instead, she just seized him up, constantly breaking eye contact.

"How about you?"

"What about me?"

"Are you going to be fine?" Morgan asked delicately.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"You've been a little off."

Abby shrugged. "No. I'll be fine." She smiled and he returned it, with the same weakness and understanding. _I'll be fine._

* * *

><p>"<em>A love affair with knowledge will never end in heartbreak."<em>

Michael Garrett Marino


End file.
